


Personal Assistance

by TheScholarlyStrumpet (equipoise)



Series: Complications That were Not in the Fucking Diary [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), In the Loop (2009), In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Slow Burn, Smut, but if you like Malcolm Tucker, clara x malcolm, malcolm x clara, satsoufflé, so much cursing, you already knew that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-26 02:26:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 52,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3833524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equipoise/pseuds/TheScholarlyStrumpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara Oswald leaves behind teaching to enter the world of British politics. What better way to make a splash than by working for the infamous Malcolm Tucker? </p><p>And if discovering a (mutual) attraction happens to catch them both off-guard.... well, that's just life, right?</p><p>Clara x Malcolm AU, sexual tension, humor, and lots of F-bombs. Set in The Thick of It, series 3-ish (timeline liberties will be taken)<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Getting the Job

After a long day of being repeatedly put off, it was clear the interviewees were all about to be dismissed.

“Wait!” Clara jumped to her feet, thinking fast. “You haven’t seen me yet and you really should.” She crossed to the door of Malcolm Tucker’s office where he and a tall man with a mop of curly hair were standing. “Look, not only am I completely qualified for the position but after sitting here for nearly three hours, I can tell you exactly why I’m the only one in the room who is.”

Malcolm Tucker quirked a heavy eyebrow at her. “Go on.”

She took a deep breath, moving closer and lowering her voice, conspiratorially. “Ok, see the woman and the man at opposite ends of the room? They’re a couple but they are both going out for this position and they are fighting about it. You don’t want to hire either with that much baggage to bring in. The girl in the pink suit isn’t really here to interview; she’s a blogger and wants to get up close and personal with you for a story. The man next to her is a plant, spying for the Opposition. The woman across from him is pregnant – she’d be on maternity leave in a few months and distracted with the baby after. And the guy to her left is… just really creepy. No one wants that in their front office.”

There was an elongated pause as she met his eyes steadily, willing him to find fault with her reasoning. The taller man gawped openly at her but said nothing.

Finally, the corner of Malcolm’s mouth twitched upward. “Well then. Be here tomorrow at 8. One fuckin’ minute late, though, and you find yourself a new job. Got it, Miss…?”

Clara swallowed hard, pulse still thrumming with adrenaline. “Clara Oswald, Sir. And yes, I got it.” She extended a hand. “Thank you very much for the opportunity.”

“You may not be saying that in a few days.” His hand dwarfed hers as he shook it. “First duty, Clara, tell the rest of these punters to fuck off.”

Clara cleared her throat and raised her voice over the hushed conversations that had started once she had left her seat. “We thank you for your time, but the position has been filled.” Someone started to protest but she put on her sweetest smile and ignored it, speaking louder. “Off you all go, now. Have a lovely evening.”

There was a little more grumbling but the room emptied quickly.

Malcolm watched them file out before turning back to Clara. “It’s Malcolm, not Sir. Not Mr. Tucker. Malcolm. I don’t stand on that holier-than-thou bullshit. ”

Clara bit back a grin. “Yes, Malcolm.”

He nodded a brisk dismissal and returned to his office, his mobile already ringing again.

***

The next morning, Clara made sure to arrive half an hour early.

Malcolm was already there. She could hear the shouting through the walls. She had expected that, going in.

In preparation for the interview, she had conducted as much research as she possibly could into how Malcolm Tucker ran his office. Drinks with a few disgruntled ex-employees led nowhere, but eventually she was handed an email address for his former PA, Samantha. Or, Sam, as she preferred to be called.

Sam had been surprised to hear from her but was pleased to be consulted, all the same.

Apparently Sam had trained a replacement before she left, but he had not lasted. There had been a succession of replacements after that but none of them had stayed long. Either they lacked the temerity or Malcolm sent them packing within weeks of starting. Clara intended to put a stop to that pattern.

Getting her foot in the door in the first place, however, had proved a challenge. Her first couple of submissions went completely ignored. Screwing up every defiant ounce of her courage, she had simply shown up, uninvited, to the next interview day.

The gamble had paid off magnificently. Now all she had to do was the job she had wanted all along.

Logging onto the computer, she was greeted by 3 pages of unanswered emails. She sighed. _Careful what you wish for…_

Malcolm’s conversation died down. After a moment of silence, his door swung open. “Clara, was it?”

“Yes?” She felt herself spring to attention.

“Come in, please. Bring your CV.”

She took a deep breath and obeyed. Soon, she found herself seated across from him at his desk while he perused her (very inflated but not entirely fabricated) CV.

Finally, he looked up from it, eyeing her curiously. “Why did you want to work here, Clara?”

“I have a deep rooted passion for Communications.” She tried to grin winningly.

“Don’t be fuckin’ cheeky. What brought you here with your neatly typed bullshit and observational skills that would give Sherlock Holmes a wet fuckin’ dream?”

She spread her hands in front of her, palms up. “Working here is a challenge and that’s what I really wanted in my career, right now. I admit I’m relatively un-blooded in politics but all the more reason to prove what I can do.”

“What better place to start than the very fucking lion’s den, itself?” He snorted. “You’ve got some great bloody bollocks on you; I’ll give you that.”

“They are rather hard to hide in a pencil skirt.”

He looked pleased with that reply, laying the piece of paper back down on his desk. “So, tell me, how did you pull that little trick yesterday?”

“Sorry?”

“The couple, the blogger, the spy. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.” He made a large, sweeping gesture with both hands.

She blushed heavily. “Oh um, well the couple were pretty obvious. They were arguing in the hallway and not quietly. The pregnant girl had mentioned something on the phone and I just happened to overhear. The blogger kept checking to make sure her tape recorder was working and honestly, who dresses like that for an interview, anyway?”

“And the spy?”

Her heart fell into her stomach. He would get the truth out of her either way; he was Malcolm fucking Tucker. She had just hoped to impress him with her flawless PA skills before the axe could fall. She sighed and continued in a less flippant tone. “Actually… that may have just been a bit of a guess. He very well could have been a spy. I mean, there was no proof he wasn’t…” There was no way to tell what he was thinking. “That other guy really was awfully creepy, though.” She finished lamely.

Malcolm’s face was unreadable for several long minutes. Her stomach twisted in knots. It had been a hell of a chance to take, but with a little coaching from Sam, she thought maybe it would be worth it. If only he could see the benefits in having her on his team.

Suddenly he laughed. It was a round, unexpectedly pleasing sound. At another time, it might have been almost sensual.

 _Why on earth would she think such a thing?_ Clara mentally chastised herself. _Focus!_

As it was, at least it didn’t sound like the kind of evil chuckling she expected would precipitate a ruthless dismissal. She allowed herself a small, nervous smile in response.

The laughter tapered off and Malcolm leaned back in his chair for a moment, half lidded eyes glittering with a dark amusement. “You’re a quick thinker. That will do you well, here.” He pulled himself to standing in a single fluid movement and motioned she should do the same.

She rose, feeling rather chuffed that her little gambit had worked so well. “Thank you, S- Malcolm. I do what I can.”

“Which is more than most of the lazy tit-wanking cunts at number 10 can say.”

As he approached about an arm’s length from her, he stopped. At this distance, she had to crane her neck a little to keep meeting his eyes.

He crossed his arms and leaned one hip against his desk. “We work with whatever fucking version of the truth is most useful, in this office. You may be asked to prevaricate to the media, to the pundits, the ministers, even the PM, himself, in the line of duty. It is always for the good of the Party. Do you take any issue with that?”

She shook her head vehemently.

“I thought not. But there is one very important thing I’d like you to remember, Clara.”

In a blink, the levity disappeared completely. It was as though he had sucked all the oxygen out of the room. The blood in Clara’s veins turned to ice. “Yes?” She could barely choke out a whisper.

His eyes locked onto hers and his voice was deadly soft. “Don’t ever fuckin’ lie to _me_. When I say it won’t end well for you, I don’t mean you’ll miss out on a good redundancy package or a letter of recommendation. I mean I can and will wipe you off the fuckin’ map, vocationally speaking. You will not exist in politics. You won’t even be able to peddle your fucking secretarial services in the fuckin’ red light district.”

She could feel her eyes go wide, her heart slamming against her breastbone. Very little could cow Clara Oswald into silence. Part of her wanted desperately to tell him to fuck off if he thought this petty intimidation was going to work on the likes of her.

Unfortunately, it rather did. Or at least, it made her realize exactly the depth of the shit into which she had just willingly stepped. She bit her tongue until it nearly bled, her stubborn streak still spoiling for a fight.

Malcolm stepped away, returning to the seat behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of him. He seemed to be waiting for a reaction. There was a spark of humor back in his eyes. Of course the bastard would enjoy watching her wrestle for control of her emotions.

He continued at long last, in a lighter tone. “Honestly, I’d hate to do it, Clara. You’re obviously a bright girl and I think you have a stunning future. But if I can’t trust you completely, you are of no use to me. Understood?”

She found her voice. “Perfectly, S- Malcolm.”

“Good. Now, coffee please. Black as black can be.”

Still reeling, Clara nodded briskly and hurried off to find out where they kept the coffee.

***

In the next few weeks, Clara settled into the routine. She arrived almost a full hour before her actual start time. She made a fresh pot of coffee and checked her messages. If Malcolm’s door was closed, she knew not to go in. If it was open, she checked to make sure he hadn’t passed out at his desk and tidied up. If he was sleeping, she usually let him be. Once or twice, she draped his jacket over him.

Sam had cautioned against waking Malcolm unless it was an emergency – a “building on fire” kind of emergency, not just another massive media fuck-up, she had added.

The two had quickly become friends via email and, later, text message. Sam’s twin boys were going on 8 months and she laughingly related her nostalgia for the adult world. But she wasn’t interested in coming back. She joked that dealing with Malcolm had given her a great tolerance for loud tantrums and endless fussing.

Sam had been with Malcolm for nearly a decade. When she had gotten pregnant and her husband, Andrew, had been transferred to the Northern office of his work, Sam had made the difficult decision to stay home with the babies. Sam confessed to Clara that, despite her deep rooted love for the difficult man, leaving the madness of Malcolm’s office had been the only real option.

“He has such a magnificent talent but he lets the job eat him alive.” Sam related, a little sadly, the day Clara had taken the train up to meet her for tea. “If you’re not careful, you’ll get pulled so far in…” she shook her head. “The boys would never have seen their mother.”

Clara’s lips pressed together, sensing the shift in the older woman’s mood. “Sam, it’s okay. I’ll take care of him.”

Sam nodded. “I wouldn’t have recommended you if I didn’t think you could do the job properly. Just remember to take care of you, too.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got it all under control. I’m a regular Girl Friday, you’ll see.” Clara gave a wink, puffing up with exaggerated confidence.

Sam laughed and the tension dissipated. “Hold onto that, Miss Oswald. He may have trouble keeping up with you, before long!”

It was Clara’s turn to laugh. Then something struck her. “Hold on a tick… you said you recommended me?”

“I did. When we first started talking, I sent him your CV and told him I thought you’d be a good fit.” Sam sipped her tea. “He didn’t tell you that when he hired you?”

“That wiley little fu-… um wank…er. Sorry.” Clara blushed.

“Oh don’t worry. The boys are still fast asleep, thank God. I swear like a sailor when they can’t hear me. You can’t be around Mal that long without picking up a few choice words. Andrew hates it.” Sam grinned wickedly and gestured to Clara. “You were saying?”

“Oh, just that your former boss is a manipulative little shite and I can’t believe I fell for it. He had your recommendation all that time but he still kept ignoring my calls.” Clara scowled at her now-tepid tea.

Sam covered a smile with one hand. “He must have wanted you to work for it.”

Clara exhaled noisily. “How long did you have to keep proving yourself?”

“Well, I was a different story. I was in an undersecretary in his first office, before he worked for the PM. I was the only one who wasn’t scared to get him his coffee, even when he was on one of his tirades. I think he just got used to having me around, really. When he left, he asked me to come with him.” Sam nibbled on a biscuit. She seemed so dainty and gentle, not at all like the woman who could withstand such a mighty force as Malcolm Tucker’s wrath.

 _Though looks can be deceiving_ , Clara considered. Clara understood that all too well. She was a tiny thing and looked much younger than her 28 years. It had been an uphill battle all her life to be taken seriously. As a teacher, she had learned quickly how to establish dominance.Moving into politics, however, she was still finding her footing. She supposed she could see the hidden steel in Sam’s gentle gaze. When Malcolm spoke of her – which was rarely – there was an unabashed fondness in his voice. She knew for a fact that he had sent a Burberry double pushchair and two ludicrously large stuffed bears upon the birth of the twins.

She touched Sam’s arm lightly. “I think he was more than just used to you.”

The two women smiled at one another in tacit understanding. The conversation shifted back to life in London and the latest Ministry fuck ups. Eventually the boys woke up hungry and Clara took her leave.

On the train ride back, she thought about the bond that lay unspoken between Sam and Malcolm. There was no indication from either side that it had ever been romantic and Sam did not seem to view him as a father figure. But there was a distinct feeling of love and mutual respect, even now that Sam had pursued her separate life. It warmed Clara from within to think of Malcolm having such affection for Sam and her family. It was a side of him she had not really seen much of, but she thought she would rather like to.

He was a man of such ferocity and volatility. Yet, the mystery lay in his capacity to be kind as well. She had seen him interact with the cleaning staff, treating them with more dignity than any Minister. She liked that dichotomy, though she would be hard pressed to say why.

Working for Malcolm was meant to be a gold star on her CV, a jumping off place to greater heights. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t at least get to know the man, in the meantime. Really, what harm could there be in that?


	2. The Dinner Party

 “You sound almost nervous, love.”

Even over the phone, she could tell he was smiling. He was always so tickled when she was uncomfortable. Clara huffed. “No. Not nervous. Just out of breath. The lift is broken and I live 6 floors up.”

She _was_ nervous, of course.

She had every right to be anxious about tonight. It was the very first formal affair she had ever attended. She was going to be wearing a dress that cost nearly her whole month’s salary (Malcolm had kindly allowed her to expense it as a rental) and meeting everyone who mattered at all in British politics. She was practically fucking paralyzed. But Fat Pat would show up with both pendulous breasts strapped into a boob tube before Clara would admit such a thing to her boss.

He chuckled warmly in her ear, reminding her that she still had her Bluetooth on. “Well, you’ve got about 10 fucking minutes to prepare yourself. The car’s a couple blocks out.”

“Ok, no problem. I’ll be out front. Thanks again for sending the car, Malcolm.” She tied the sash on her coat tightly. Her dress was quite elegant but it left some broad swathes of skin exposed in both the back and front. Spring was in the air but apparently no one had told the weather that, yet. 

“I wouldn’t have my PA fuckin’ wanderin’ the streets dressed to the nines. Lot of scary folk out there.”

She smiled. “Yes, but you’re scarier than any of that lot.”

“Indeed.” He agreed amiably. “Aren’t you fuckin’ lucky to have me on your side?”

“I count my blessings daily.”

He laughed again and took a breath to reply but stopped short. “Another call coming in. Be out front in 5.”

She ended the call and took out the Bluetooth, shoving it in the pocket of her coat. The tiny clutch that went with the dress could barely contain her phone and keys; she didn’t want to test its dimensions any further. She descended the final flight of stairs as quickly as her teetering heels would allow and lingered on the landing, stealing restless glances out the window. 

A few minutes later, the car had pulled up and the backseat door opened. Malcolm emerged, distractedly muttering into the phone, and held the door open with his free hand. He covered the speaker long enough to nod a greeting. “Your fuckin’ chariot awaits.” Someone on the line said something and he put it back to his ear. “Of course I’m not talking to you, you appallingly useless fuckin’ sack of putrescence.”

“Thank you…” She settled into the seat, tucking her long skirt in before he slammed the door shut.

 By the time he slid in beside her, he was deeply engaged in a bollocking session, probably with someone from DoSAC. They had been in and out of the office all day with sheepish looks on their faces. Nicola had said something stupid on air and Terri’s official press release had gone and made it worse. Luckily a story about Peter Mannion and a supposedly new mistress had taken over the front page by end of day.

Still, Clara knew Malcolm wouldn’t let the matter rest until everyone had had their due. Like a pitbull with a favorite chew toy. Though a surprisingly dapper one, in his well pressed tuxedo.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him tear the meat off the bones of whomever was on the receiver (probably Ollie judging by the vicious joy on Malcolm’s face) and contemplated how she’d come to be here. In a fancy black car, clad in an exquisitely posh dress, with one of the most powerful and feared men in Britain by her side.

She had been Malcolm’s PA for nearly four months, now. She knew how and when he liked his coffee, where to send his suits to get them mended or pressed. She knew which calls to send through and which to ignore. When she had canceled a lunch date with Sam to work through the weekend during the last media blitz, Sam had laughingly told her she was officially in the thick of it.

Her very bones tingled with the excitement of it all. It wasn’t the glamour or even the power, really. It was the fact that nothing in the world had a rush to it like the uncertainty of politics. One minute on top of the world, the next in a gutter. Anything could happen at any time and Malcolm was at the eye of the storm. He was the gatekeeper and he relied on her to keep him going. It was heady and intoxicating.

She wondered idly if he put that kind of intense focus and fervent passion into all aspects of his life. Like fucking.

Her face flared hot. _Completely inappropriate, Clara! He is your boss and old enough to be your father and frankly he may not even be attracted to women. He does spend an inordinate amount of time telling other men to suck his cock…_

Malcolm was a flirt, there was no doubt in that. But he flirted with everyone almost equally and usually as a prelude to going in for the kill. If he was a little more intimate with her, at times, that was likely just proximity. He had certainly never expressed an interest in her romantic life, unlike half the office. Ollie had made his interest so clear she contemplated keeping a spray bottle handy whenever he was coming by.

It wasn’t the first time Clara had entertained a passing fancy regarding Malcolm’s extracurricular life, but at work, she was usually too busy to really explore the thought. Now, with nothing else to occupy her mind, watching him work was rather spell-binding. Especially in that tuxedo.

Reminding herself that she was lucky just to be allowed the glimpses behind the curtain she did get, Clara forced herself to think of anything besides the fascinatingly complex man at her side.

They were early to the event, but only by right of not being fashionably late. Malcolm’s call had wrapped up but he was emailing or texting until the moment they left the car.

When they got inside the building, she let the coat fall off her shoulders and heard Malcolm’s breath catch softly behind her. Wanting desperately to see his face, she made a show of casually turning to face him.

She was not disappointed.

His jaw had gone slightly slack. His eyes burned a trail along her décolletage, sweeping up her neck and settling on her face.  He licked his lips before glancing away.

Clara released a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. _Well._ _Ok. Probably not gay, then._

After he had checked their coats, he crooked an arm for her to take. “Shall we?”

She took it, smiling broadly.

They swept into the room and for just a second, Clara could feel every eye on them, sizing her up.  She fancied she could hear the reporters trading whispers and she swallowed hard.

Malcolm leaned in and murmured. “Breathe, love. They’re more scared of me than you are of them.”

Clara bit back a giggle and shot him a grateful look. She squared her shoulders and held her head high, ready to face the room full of strangers head-on. The wave of conversation washed over her as they made their way into the crowd. By her side, Malcolm was nodding acknowledgments and smiling that tight lipped smile that indicated he had far better places to be.

The Ministers and their respective wives or husbands all acknowledged Malcolm with a lifted drink or a plastered on smile of their own. The room was packed, body heat making the air thick and stifling. Clara swept a hand self-consciously over her hair. In the thrum of daily life in Malcolm’s office, it was easy to forget that the government itself was so very large.

To stall the inevitable need for small talk, she nibbled at various hors d’oeuvres. Once their arms dropped, she fell behind Malcolm, the mincing steps required to stay atop her towering heels no match for his long strides. Losing sight of him felt like falling into the ocean without a raft or a life jacket. She cursed herself inwardly for cowardice and accepted a glass of champagne from a nearby tray. Liquid courage bubbled down her throat.

An attractive middle aged woman wearing an elegant ruched dress and expensive jewelry approached her.

“Miss Oswald, am I right?” The woman extended a well-manicured hand.

Clara shook it. “Clara, please. Miss…?”

“Hewitt. Mrs. Hewitt. But please call me Kelly.” Kelly smiled warmly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kelly. Lovely necklace.”

“Why thank you! It was a gift from my husband. He has excellent taste – if I do say so, myself.” The woman winked and Clara fought the urge to make a face. Instead she lifted her glass in acknowledgement and took a good swallow of the frothy liquid. Idle conversation for its own sake was bad enough but listening to the posh find themselves amusing… Clara had no idea how anyone put up with that. She supposed, if she was going to make a life in politics, it was time to learn.

“So, you’re his new Sam, then?” Kelly blinked vividly blue eyes, framed in long dark lashes.  

There was no need to clarify who she meant, but Clara contemplated playing dumb, just in case this Kelly person was a reporter. She was only one glass of champagne in and had her wits about her, but she wasn’t really in the mood to be pumped for inside information.

“Actually, I’m his new Clara,” she replied at last.

The other woman raised one eyebrow in a gesture not unlike the man they were both discussing. “Well aren’t you clever. I do hope he appreciates that, darling.”

Clara’s bit the inside of her cheek to hold in a nasty retort. She forced her eyes wide and round. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Come, come.” Kelly chided. “Surely you’ve noticed by now that Malcolm always needs to be the cleverest man in the room.”

Clara shifted her weight, regretting her choice of footwear for the umpteenth time that night. “Well, perhaps it’s just that so many people make that so easy for him.” She drained her champagne glass, sparing Kelly a casual glance over the rim.

The older woman’s eyes narrowed briefly before she let out a breezy laugh. “Oh yes, I can see why he’d keep you around.”

 “Speaking of which, I really ought to see if I’m needed.” Clara set her empty glass on a passing tray and made to leave but a hand landed lightly on her arm.

“Just a moment more of your time?” Kelly’s eyes had softened and the smile she offered this time held a touch of genuine warmth. “Clara, I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot, here. Malcolm and I have… a history, but – despite whatever he may think – I do wish the best for him.” She released Clara’s arm and lifted two more glasses of champagne from a passing tray. She offered one to Clara, who took it with a hesitant nod of thanks.

“I think you seem quite competent to handle him and that speaks volumes for you. I just have a word of advice, if I may?” Kelly sipped her champagne, awaiting Clara’s answer.

Clara shrugged. “As long as we understand I’m under no obligation to take it.”

Kelly smiled. “Were you always like this or has he been a bad influence already? Don’t answer that, I don’t need to know. What I was going to say is this: Don’t let him keep you locked up in that office. You’re far too young, too pretty , and – more importantly –  too astute,  to waste away your best years fetching coffee for his nibs. Sam could have had a hell of a career if she hadn’t gotten so drawn in to his world.”

The sympathetic tone was enough to push Clara over the edge. This time, she didn’t stop herself from making a face. “I’ll have you know, Sam is perfectly happy where she is, thank you. And not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t intend to stay a PA my whole life. Malcolm is perfectly aware of this and I have no doubt he will be completely supportive of any professional move I eventually decide to make. Frankly, I find it insulting to both him and myself that you would assert otherwise.”

Kelly’s hand flew to her heart. “I had no intention of offending! I thought you could simply learn from the mistakes –“

“Look, I’m sure you do mean well, but you can really shove off, Mrs. Hewitt,” Clara interrupted, glaring openly.

Kelly’s eyes went wide, her mouth pressed to a tight line. “You two deserve each other.” With a loud sniff, she turned on her heel and strode away.

Clara felt herself deflate. This was not the evening she had intended. She scanned the room for Malcolm, suddenly just needing to be near him. She didn’t think Mrs. Hewitt was anyone of particular importance, although the name was vaguely familiar. With any luck, their tiff would blow over before anyone else got wind of it. Still, she would be forced to make a full report to her boss, just in case. She hoped the fact she was defending him would count for something. She took a gulp of champagne. Then another. At long last she caught a glimpse of curly salt and pepper hair.

Malcolm was in a corner, deep in conversation with a tall, dark haired man who looked about a decade his junior. She recognized the man as having been involved in some small scandal or another a little while back. She gathered he must have worked his way back in, from the way Malcolm did not immediately dismiss him. Clara crossed the room toward them and the younger man’s eyes flicked briefly to her, following a similar path as Malcolm’s had when she had dropped her coat, earlier. Somehow, his appraisal left her much colder. Despite his handsome face, the appreciative way his eyes lingered at her bosom almost made her stomach turn. Then again, it could have been leftover nerves from her encounter with Kelly Hewitt.

Malcolm followed the other man’s gaze to Clara. His eyes were serious but the corner of his mouth twitched upward as he saw her. “Clara, please, come join us. This is Dan Miller. Dan, my PA, Clara Oswald.”

Dan shook her hand firmly and gave her the kind of smile that only a true politician could muster. It made him even handsomer but it also made her skin crawl, just a little.

“Clara Oswald. The woman behind the man, eh? Well done on keeping up with this political machine.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. Malcolm flashed Clara a long-suffering look before turning back to Dan.

Clara smiled, the tension easing from her as she stepped closer to her boss. “Well, he runs on coffee and rage, you know? I supply one and the Ministers always seem to take care of the other.”

Both men laughed. Malcolm’s hand came to rest at her lower back, his thumb just grazing the low dip of her dress. As Dan took up the point he had been making prior to her arrival, Clara let her mind wander. Malcolm’s thumb began making little, nearly imperceptible circles on the exposed skin of her back. An unexpected frisson of pleasure ran up her spine at his touch. She leaned into it, instinctively, until she realized what she was doing.

_Oh. Well, that could prove most inconvenient._

She finished off her second glass of champagne just as the call to dinner was sounding. Malcolm’s hand fell away and Clara felt her heart rate return to normal. Both Dan and Malcolm offered her an arm, but she declined. Dan called her “fiercely independent” in a way that made it sound like an innuendo. As he walked away, Malcolm glared at his receding back.

“Fuckin’ hoighty toighty cunt thinks he’ll be fucking PM someday,” he remarked with distaste.

“Why bother humoring him?” Clara tilted her head to one side.

“Because the tosser may be right.” He exhaled heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Dinner?”

Clara nodded and followed him to the dining room. Luckily, the seating arrangements placed them next to one another. As the pre-dinner speeches were delivered, Malcolm’s running commentary in her ear nearly had her gasping with laughter. She bit her lip until it bled to maintain her composure. Over the first course, the woman in the next seat over made a passing comment about foreign policy. The table was soon engaged in a lively debate, which Clara happily joined. But she felt a twinge of loss at not being the sole focus of Malcolm’s attention.

_Get it together, Clara! He’s not here with you. You’re here with him. Professionally. Well, not like that. He wouldn’t have to pay for it… Fuck. Too much champagne, Clara Oswald._

Third course arrived and Clara switched to water. Malcolm made a dry remark about the Opposition that set everyone to laughing. His eye caught hers and he winked. She smiled back, fighting the urge to squeeze his hand under the table.

_Oh my God. Just stop looking at him like that or he’s bound to figure it out. He’s not stupid._

_I mean, neither am I. Except maybe in that I just realized I think I want to shag my boss._

Over dessert, their eyes met once more. His tongue flicked out, capturing a dollop of mousse from his spoon and Clara’s mouth went dry. She saw his Adam’s Apple bob as she repeated the motion with her own spoon. The final speech of the evening was being delivered, so all eyes were on the platform at the front of the room. Alcohol sung in Clara’s veins as she dipped one finger in the remaining crème fraiche in her bowl and brought it to her mouth. Malcolm raised one heavy brow as the digit passed her lips. She sucked it clean, hollowing her cheeks more for effect than necessity. He turned slightly in his seat and his knee brushed hers. He opened his mouth as if to speak when suddenly thunderous applause erupted all around them.

The sound startled them both and Malcolm slammed himself back in his chair, hands flying together with a touch more force than was probably necessary. When the cacophony had died down, Malcolm addressed Clara without looking at her.

“You can take the car. I’ll be here a while longer. Got some fuckin’ business left to straighten out, yet. Tell the driver I’ll call ‘round when I’m ready.” When she hesitated, he turned toward her, still not quite meeting her eye. “Go on. No use losing your fucking beauty sleep waiting up for me. The car will be outside. I’ll see you at work on Monday.” Without waiting for a response, Malcolm stood up and stalked off in the direction of the platform, cutting through the drowsy people in expensive outfits still milling around the tables.

Clara rose on shaky legs and head toward the exit.


	3. Work Malcolm

Had he noticed that Clara was pretty?

Of course he fucking had. He wasn’t blind. Even if he hadn’t noticed it himself, the gaggle of lust-struck buffoons fucking waggling their half-mast erections at her almost daily would have tipped him off that she was a desirable woman.

A desirable, witty, sharp-tongued woman with a mind far too curious and quick for her own fucking good.

It was the quickness that inspired him to hire her, but he’d have booted her in a fucking week if that was all she brought to the table. Clara Oswald was punctual, thorough, and –so far – unfailingly loyal. She didn’t bat an eye when he went on one of his infamous tirades and she had no qualms about giving the staff what for when they fucking needed it.

As a PA, she reminded him fondly of Sam, but with a quicker temper and slightly less tact. In nearly a decade, he had only rattled Sam’s cage a handful of times. Clara was a little easier to bait, and she blushed so charmingly when he did so. Not that he was supposed to notice things like that about his 20-something PA.

At any rate, he wasn’t surprised the two women had become friends. In fact, he was well fucking impressed with the initiative Clara had taken by contacting his former employee. Just another sign that she had been the right choice.

And then, four months into a very functional working relationship, she’d had to go and wear that fucking dress. That thrice-damned satin bit of fucking mischief that hugged her petite curves like a lover and left just the right ( _wrong_ ) amount to his lascivious imagination.

He had barely been able to take his eyes off of her all evening. When they got separated, it had been nearly a relief to have her out of his line of sight. He was so distracted, he had just narrowly escaped being cornered by Nicola Murray’s fat fucking knob of a husband. No, he most certainly did not want to discuss the latest government contract or the most ethical way to bid for it. The most ethical way would be for that waste of fucking oxygen to stop bidding on fucking government contracts. He would have to have yet another word with Twat faced Nicola. He barely had time to recover from that bout of verbal arse-buggery when he was caught by Dan aren’t-I-the-consummate-politician-rent-boy Miller, who had managed to worm his way back into Tom’s good graces in a way Malcolm could only assume involved a lot of gagging and lubricant.

Dan was pitching some new scheme when Clara had finally caught up with him. He hated the revolting way Dan very obviously sized up Clara’s breasts. Unable to resist the (admittedly petty) urge to stake him claim, he had laid a hand on her for the first time since they met. He had been thrilled when she didn’t push him away in disgust. His hand had itched to stray lower, cup her delectable arse and squeeze. But he knew allowing himself even this indulgence was dangerous fucking territory.

Sam was a very attractive woman, but he had worked with her for ten fucking years and never once given a thought to taking her to bed. In retrospect, there was a time he probably could have – long before she met Andrew. There was a certain way she used to look at him that changed gradually to a familial kind of affection. Back in those days, bedding his secretary was the furthest thing from his mind. He had always had much bigger fish to fry.

Now, he was at the top of the fucking food chain. But he worked what little arse he had off every fucking day to maintain that status, so he still couldn’t afford distractions. Distractions like Clara Oswald’s pert bottom or supple breasts. Distractions like the way his very male anatomy responded to that little smile she gave when she thought ( _knew_ , _damn her!_ ) she was being cute. Distractions like the way she nibbled her pen top when she took a letter, or leaned forward in that emerald green top with the fluttering neckline….

And fuck him sideways, that dress may have opened the floodgates, but an attraction to Clara had apparently been trickling in for weeks. He had just gotten too fucking good at turning off the fucking non-work part of his brain. He barely remembered to eat or sleep unless it was scheduled. Perhaps if he had penciled “ _Have a wank thinking about Clara sucking my cock_ ” into his diary, he’d have noticed earlier.

Her little champagne fueled show at the fucking dinner had certainly not helped matters. He knew Clara well enough to be confident that, had alcohol not been involved, her crème fraiche would have been just another fucking dessert item. She would have polished it off with relish and perhaps nattered at him to finish his, as well. She was often bringing him sweets with his lunch, remarking that his hips could afford them more than hers could. Which he found untenable, considering her hips looked perfectly….

 _Fucking hell_.

By Sunday night he had concluded that the whole thing had been almost entirely in his head. Clara had simply been enjoying her fucking dessert. Inebriated as she was, she would have given that look to any fucking bloke who happened to catch her eye. Facing her on Monday was not a challenge at all, considering how much work they had to get done. And if he happened to stroke himself to completion before bed, picturing her spread out on his desk like a fucking buffet – well that was his own fucking business and had fuck all to do with her.

***

Monday found Malcolm at his desk before dawn, putting together a press release for a story that was threatening to break any minute. Simultaneously, he was making every phone call possible to ensure the story would not break at all. When Clara walked in with a cup of black, blessedly strong coffee, she looked ready to ask him questions. He quickly shoved the press release in her hand and she scurried off to type it up.

Business as fucking usual.

The next several days followed suit. Every few hours seemed to bring a new fucking fire that needed putting out. He raged and complained and secretly loved every fucking minute of it.

Malcolm Tucker was a man designed to stay busy. Idle hands and all that shite.

By the following week, things had leveled off to what most offices would have called “normal” and Tucker saw as a lull. After a rather satisfying pep talk with Tom ( _manky git kept thinking he could fucking run Britain by his lonesome, then it was up to kindly Uncle Mal to set his latest cock-up straight_ ), Malcolm leaned back in his office chair to stretch. His legs extended before him, long arms folded behind his head, he sighed loudly.

“Look at you. King of the castle.” Clara was smirking at him, leaned one hip against the doorway, arms crossed.

“Fuck off with your comparisons to Royalty. I fucking work for a living, missy,” he replied, grinning despite himself.

“No one could ever doubt that. Did you forget to eat lunch again?” She indicated the still-wrapped tuna sandwich she had delivered some time ago.

He glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Tempus fugit. Did you want it?”

She made a face. “Did I want a tuna sandwich that’s been sitting on your desk for 3 hours?”

He had the good grace to be slightly embarrassed if not the humility to show it. He hastily tossed the offending sandwich into the bin. “What brings you to my fucking fortress of solitude?”

Taking that as invitation, Clara strode to his desk. She came around to the side he was on and for a split second, he entertained the notion ( _fantasy_ ) that she was about to deposit herself in his lap. Instead, she half-sat on the edge and leaned toward him, one hand braced on the desk’s edge. “You haven’t responded to Sam’s invitation this weekend. The boys’ first birthday party? You and I both know she’d never pressure you to go but you also know how disappointed she’ll be if you don’t.”

He wrinkled his nose at her schoolmarm tone. Clara always got like that when she wanted him to do something fucking responsible like leave the office before midnight or not sleep in his chair for the third night in a row. He hated it.

Well, he absolutely _should have_ hated it. Newly awakened to his burgeoning desire for her, he almost ( _almost!_ ) found it endearing. He wondered if she would tell him what to do to her in the bedroom. He thought he might enjoy that, every once in a while…

 _Not during work hours!_ _Save that thought for non-work Malcolm to savor…_

When he didn’t immediately reply to her query, Clara edged closer and placed a hand over his. His pulse jumped and he hid it badly. He met her eyes, willing himself to look nonchalant.

“Malcolm…?” She leaned in close enough that he could feel her breath on his face, smell her perfume (something light that reminded him of the way honey tasted.) He wondered if he were to run his tongue along the curve of her neck, if she would taste as sweet as she smelled.

_Oh for fuck’s sake…_

He cleared his throat and gave her a skeptical look. “And I’m sure Sam already told you how badly she wants this old fuckin’ misanthrope there to liven up her children's birthday." Somehow his voice had dropped a register, coming out rougher than he had intended. He was sure it was just a trick of the light, be he could have sworn he saw Clara’s pupils dilate.

She licked her lips. “She did, actually. Besides, if you don’t go, Sam will be the only person I know, there!” She looked down and then back up, her eyes wide and searching. “Please?”

_There was no way she didn't know what those eyes could do to a man..._

“Ah ha!” He sat back in his chair, needing to put some distance between them – fast! – before he did something irrevocably fucking stupid. His hand pulled out from under hers to grip the arm of his chair just a tad too tightly. “I knew there had to be an ulterior fuckin’ motive at play.”

Clara heaved an exaggeratedly exasperated sigh and shifted away, crossing her arms once more. “So what if there is? Doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have anything else on your calendar and Sam would love to see you.”

“And you seem to think that you putting on a pout will get me there faster?” He teased, feeling the strange, tense moment start to ebb away.

She made an outraged noise. “I do not pout!”

“Yes you fucking well do. Reminds me of my niece when I don’t bring her a toy.” _There, safely back on solid ground._

“Hmph.” Clara pursed her lips and rose from her perch on his desk to head toward the door. “Suit yourself. Shall I send Sam your refusal?”

He ran his hand through his hair, wrestling with himself. It would be fucking great to see Sam and finally meet the boys. On the other hand, it would mean sacrificing a whole fucking Saturday to socializing in a way that would in no way advance his career but was absolutely fucking certain to try his patience. On a third hand that had come out of nowhere and slapped him in the fucking face, Clara would be there. On a fourth hand, the one not currently itching to fondle himself through his trousers, _Clara would be there._ Thereby pitting work-Malcolm squarely against non-work-Malcolm.

He shook himself, mentally. What kind of come-in-his-pants fucking namby pamby schoolboy was he? Christ, he could spend some fucking time with the girl socially without bending her over the fucking gift table and all!

“Oh, of course I’m fucking going, daft lass.” The casual assertion came out a bit more rushed than he intended. When Clara whirled around to look at him, he raised his eyebrows as if to say _How could you have thought me so heartless?_

She narrowed her eyes in a universal sign for _I absolutely don’t believe for a second that you had made the decision to go until just now – and you probably only did it to prove me wrong because I know how contrary you like to be_ (or something like that). But then a smile washed over her and he could tell all was forgiven. “Great! I’ll make the train reservations, shall I?”

“Reservations? Plural? Am I taking a pet?”

Clara’s cheeks tinged pink and she shuffled the toe of one high heel against the carpet. “Well… it’s a long ride, I thought we could… go together. If nothing else, you’ll have someone to complain to.”

He blinked stupidly at her for a moment. Was she asking him to go to the party… _with_ her? He pushed that thought away to the very back of his mind. _Fucking ridiculous. Completely insane_.

“Fine. Yeah. Whatever ye fuckin’ like. Now, go do something useful. I’ve got phone calls to make.” Locking his eyes on his mobile screen, he dismissed her.


	4. The Birthday Party

Malcolm met her at the station carrying a large plastic bag. He had forgone his usual suit for a casual pair of tan trousers and what looked like a fleece jumper. Clara stopped in her tracks when she saw him, momentarily stunned by the difference a wardrobe change could make.

“What’s that fuckin’ look for?” he greeted her, brows knitting together.

“Oh! Sorry! No… it’s nothing.” Clara blushed and ripped her eyes away from the zipper on his jumper. It was half unzipped, revealing some sort of soft cotton shirt beneath it. “I’ve just never seen you so…” She made a gesture with one hand, encompassing the length of him.

Malcolm’s mouth twisted and he looked so supremely uncomfortable that Clara had to hurriedly suppress a wild urge to reach up and tousle his hair.

“Well I was hardly about to spend a day ‘round leaky nappies in a designer fucking suit,” he snapped.

Clara giggled. “Which was very wise of you. It’s just a bit of a shock, is all. Like seeing the PM in dino jim-jams or the Queen in her gardening clothes.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed and Clara bit her lower lip, afraid she had gone too far. Before she could stammer out an apology, however, Malcolm had brushed past her toward the platform. Just as he was a step ahead, he turned back and murmured “They are tiny aeroplanes, by the way. Not fuckin’ dinosaurs.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward.

A wave of relief washed over Clara. She beamed up at him as they fell into step. “My mistake.”

Unfortunately, the moment they set foot on the train, Malcolm’s mobile rang and he stepped aside to answer it. She supposed it had been too much to hope, spending a whole day just getting to know her boss outside of work. He had looked taken aback at her suggestion that they go together, despite the fact they would both be in for a two hour ride in the same direction. It seemed only logical that they sit with one another. And that had nothing to do with the fact that she was secretly hoping he would look at her the way he had at the dinner party. The way he had started to again when she sat on his desk and told him to accept Sam’s invitation. The way that made her need to press her thighs together and regulate her breathing.

_Nope, no ulterior motives at all, Mr. Tucker._

Clara took her seat with a sigh, rummaging through her purse for the snacks she had packed earlier. She was halfway through a bag of roasted peanuts when Malcolm slid into the seat next to hers.

“All clear?” She looked up at him.

“Yeah, just a civil servant with her knickers in a fuckin’ knot. She’ll live. Providing I fucking let her.” He whisked the bag of peanuts from her hand and popped a handful into his mouth.

“Oi!” She grabbed at the bag, but Malcolm’s long arm evaded her grasp.

“Sharing is caring,” he mumbled around a mouthful of peanuts. 

Clara exhaled loudly and sat back in her seat, arms crossed. “It’s not sharing if you steal it.”

“Would you have offered them to me?” He eyed her without turning his head.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course.”

“Then it’s not fucking stealing, just pre-emptively accepting your offer.” He grinned smugly and popped another handful into his mouth. Point apparently made, he held the bag back out toward her.

She snatched it back, rolled the top, and tucked it into her purse “Why were you not a barrister, again?”

“I look crap in a wig.”

Clara looked away, pressing her lips together. _Irritating man._ Why, oh why, did she have to find that so charming? She must be slowly descending into madness, like Great-aunt Louise. That was clearly the only explanation. After fuming for a moment, she grudgingly admitted. “You do decent justice to fleece, though.”

When Malcolm had no witty comeback at the ready, she glanced around to make sure he was still there. He was looking at her as though he wasn’t sure whether to be complimented or insulted. Catching her eye, he cleared his throat. “Thank you.” He looked down at his hands, which were laying idle in his lap. “And thank you for the peanuts.”

“Hmph. You aren’t off the hook for that, just yet.”

“Oh for fuck’s… I’ll buy you a new fuckin’ bag, yeah?” He looked up sharply, poised for a row. The tension in his shoulders dropped when he saw that Clara was fighting back a smile (and losing). “Besides, you did take the window seat without so much as a ‘by your leave’,” he added, lightly.

“So… you’re saying that my bad manners justify your bad behavior?” She prodded.

“My ‘bad behavior’ rarely needs justification.” He drew himself up with an arrogance sniff, then grinned at her.

“I don’t believe that for a minute, Mr. Tucker.” She used her very best schoolteacher voice and stifled a giggle when Malcolm’s face scrunched up reflexively. “At any rate, I booked you the aisle because I figured you’d need the leg room more than I would.” She nodded to his spindly limbs.

His eyes flicked to her legs, well displayed in the medium length dress she wore, and lingered just a moment too long. Clara felt her face grow hot. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he turned away. “Well, you’ve got an answer for fuckin’ everything, haven’t you?”

“You wouldn’t have hired me if I didn’t,” she asserted, wishing he would turn back to face her so she could maybe see what he was thinking.

He gave a small chuckle and pulled his phone back out. “Too fuckin’ right.”

***

They had lapsed into silence for the better part of an hour. Malcolm was texting and emailing on his mobile the whole time. Clara knew from experience that the coverage would be spotty but decided to let him have his temporary retreat. Boundaries seemed to be very important when it came to dealing with Malcolm. His own boundaries, that was. He trampled over everyone else’s as though he were the proverbial rampaging bull in a china shop of easily bruised egos. Yet, she had seen him pull back when he seemed to hit too close to an exposed nerve. He could not stand to see a woman cry. When the Minister of Education had lost her baby, he had worked overtime for a week to make sure the press would stay out of it and allow her time to grieve.

In some ways, Malcolm was not as hard to figure out as he liked to fancy himself. As long as she was honest and hardworking, he took no issue with her. They had fallen into an easy rhythm in the office. They read one another’s moods and proclivities well. Clara was accustomed to meeting the demands of a room full of adolescents. At their worst, her students had been foul mouthed, disrespectful, and obstinate. Yet she won them over, every time.

After teaching teens, Tucker’s mercurial temperament and infamous tirades barely fazed her (especially since she had not yet borne the brunt of one). There was, perhaps, a touch more profanity than she would have liked. Still, she had to respect his truly creative use of the English language. Words were still her first love, after all. If she hadn’t found herself growing so bored in the day-to-day, she might have stayed an English teacher forever. But she was itching for a change, a new goal to set sights upon; an adventure. After a casual remark made by a co-worker, she had realized that her true calling was in speech writing. The world of politics beckoned – all that to and fro, chaos and change, playing hide and seek with truth.  Malcolm Tucker’s Communications Office had been the ultimate destination.

And now here she was, nearly half a year in, taking a day trip with the Man, himself. Funny, that. She lolled her head, staring unfocused out of the window while the scourge of Downing Street continued to make himself look busy. He was probably afraid she would try to engage him in small talk, if he didn’t.

He was right, of course.

It was so rare for her to catch a glimpse of Malcolm outside of his work-mode, she was panting for a real conversation. But pressing him for it would only make him tetchy. She had to let him think it was his idea. Just as her mind was ticking through a list of topics that might interest them both, he made an indistinct noise.  

She turned her head toward him and he pointed to her window.

“Some stupid fucker is trying to sail the Nene… “

Clara followed the line of his finger and sure enough, there was a little blue sailboat in the water. “Is that… bad?”

Malcolm shrugged. “Too many bridges, not enough wind. Plenty of better places for a sail.”

“Oh. How do you know all that?” Clara scrubbed at the window then immediately felt foolish as she realized the dirt was on the outside.

Malcolm was quiet for a moment and when Clara turned back to face him, he looked away. “I had a… friend. Who liked sailing.” He shifted in his seat, gaze drawn back to his phone.

“Oh. I’ve never been.” Clara searched desperately for a way to draw him back out. “Never been on a boat, actually.” She admitted, at last.

He stared at her incredulously, the hand holding his phone dropping back to his lap. “But you’re from fucking Blackpool. Can’t exactly miss the water from there….”

_Well, that had done the trick. Any chance to take the piss…_

“Yeah… but I grew up inland, not on the water,” she defended herself, chin jutting stubbornly.

“Haven’t you ever been to fuckin’ France?” He gestured emphatically with the hand not holding his phone.

“Took the chunnel.” She shrugged.

“Fucking hell.” He snorted, eyes on the back of the seat in front of him.

“Oh alright then, Mr. World Traveler, how many boats have you been on?” She leaned into his personal space, one hand on the arm rest between them.

“I haven’t exactly kept count. More than you, obviously,” he replied smoothly.

“Congratulations,” she deadpanned.

“Well, there’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to put you on a fuckin’ boat one of these days.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Will I get to come back, if you do?”

He grinned wolfishly. “If you’re very, very good.”

“Have fun hiring another PA, then.”

He laughed then, that warm pleasing belly laugh that she only heard on rare occasions. “What if I went with you?”

Clara cocked her head to the side, heart suddenly in her throat. “Are you... are you asking me to take another daytrip with you? We’ve barely only started this one… You might hate the sight of me in a few hours.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” he murmured, his voice low, quietly filling the small space between them.  For just a moment, time fell away and there was only the two of them in the entire universe.  His gaze flicked to her mouth and she swallowed hard. Clara thought she saw him start to lean in toward her, but he stopped abruptly. There was a flash of something in his eyes before he looked away and cleared his throat. “See you every fuckin’ day, anyway.” He muttered, picking imaginary fluff from his jumper sleeve.

By the time Clara could find her voice again, Malcolm had gotten up to answer a phone call. Nevermind that he seemed to be the only one who had heard the mobile buzz.

Stunned, Clara lay back against her seat, head turned to the window, and let the scenery wash over her.

***

As Clara had predicted, Sam was absolutely thrilled that Malcolm had been able to attend. As Malcolm had predicted, within minutes of arriving, he was surrounded by dribbling infants and their simpering parents. Sam hugged them both and made introductions. Her husband, Andrew, stiffly offered Malcolm a hand to shake. Andrew had never quite got over the fact that Malcolm had hired a private investigator to do a background check on him once Sam had accepted his proposal. Clara and Malcolm took turns holding the twins until they began to reek and fuss. Sam and Andrew took them off for a change.

After reminding Malcolm to behave himself, Clara went off in search of refreshments. By the time she returned with two plates, he had wandered off. Before she could find him, Clara was drawn away by a gaggle of older married women who all, apparently, had very eligible sons or grandsons around her age. Sam, who had reappeared with a baby on each arm, shot her a sympathetic look.

Clara’s protestations that she was entirely career-focused at the moment fell on deaf ears. Although, a handful of them took this to mean “lesbian” and also suggested a granddaughter or two.  Eventually, she was able to extricate herself from the horde of potential mother-in-laws and made her way out to the backyard. Her eyes scanned the crowd, half expecting to find that Malcolm had slipped away to the train station. Instead, she discovered him kneeling at a plastic table, surrounded by dolls and stuffed animals. His eyes met hers over the pink plastic teacup he had raised to his lips and he smiled. She mimed raising his pinky as he pretended to sip and he gave a slight nod, his pinky shooting upward.

She made her way over to the table. “Is this party by invitation only?”

Malcolm turned to the chubby ginger-haired girl on his left. “Miss Amelia, this is my friend, Clara. May she join our party?”

The freckle-faced toddler’s mouth twisted. “Alright. I suppose. But there aren’t any chairs left, so she’ll have to sit in the grass.”

Malcolm nodded solemnly, his eyes glittering with amusement as he looked back up at her. “Mrs. Primrose got the last chair. Her dress is real Chinese silk.” He pointed.

Clara bit back the laughter that bubbled up in her throat and looked at the doll who had been indicated as Mrs. Primrose. She settled into the spot next to Malcolm, arranging the skirt of her sundress modestly over her legs. “Mrs. Primrose has exquisite taste.”

The ginger girl seemed to approve of this and poured the pretend tea in a purple plastic cup, offering it to Clara. They made polite conversation, with Amelia interjecting on behalf of one of the dolls every now and then. Together, the little party passed a surprisingly pleasant time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes "Amelia" is exactly the reference you think it is. It's not likely to actually be her but when I went to write a toddler, she was the first person who popped into my head :-P


	5. Ghosts

With the exceptions of Sam and Clara, Malcolm wanted to slap the face of every adult at the birthday party. Most of the children were pre-verbal, so they got a pass on whinging. What their parent’s fucking excuses were, he couldn’t fucking fathom.

“Haven’t slept in months…”

“Crayons and spaghetti sauce everywhere…”

“Sick all over my new blouse…”

“Christ, the smell!”

He wanted to shake them by their loathsome, insipid shoulders and shout _“If you weren’t ready for the sick and the mess and the smell, then you shouldn’t have fucking reproduced! By the looks of you, you probably shouldn’t have reproduced at all. Throw yourselves back to bottom of the genetic barrel where you started.”_

Instead he muttered some excuse about needing fresh air and stumbled outside.

He and Julia had tried for nearly three years to have a baby. The last two were measured out in temperature taking, cycle tracking, and scheduled fucking. He had more sex in those three years than he’d had all through his youth. But rather than drawing him in, closer to his wife, it had become rote and impersonal. By the end, he had to picture the latest page three girl just to finish the job. It left him feeling drained and hollow. They barely kissed or spoke, rutting like animals in the dark of their tiny flat. 

Julia had known it was over long before he did. He’d have kept going, kept trying, just to please her. According to the doctors (when she eventually talked him into going) he was the problem. There was nothing wrong with her. They suggested in vitro. But, in those days, it was too expensive. Malcolm was still a struggling journalist. Julia was a teacher.

He had laughed bitterly when the test results came in. Trust him to be the fuck up. Trust it to be Malcolm fucking Tucker’s fucking fault he couldn’t get his own fucking wife up the duff. It was the first and only time Julia saw her husband’s temper completely unleashed. She had stood, frozen in shock, as he tore apart the life they had built together. The next day, sobered up and desperate, he tried to apologize. She said nothing as she picked her way across the rubble and gathered the few intact belongings she could carry to her sister’s. He knelt among the debris and begged her to stay, to forget the things he had said and done in that blind rage. But he knew, even as his knees bled around shards of shattered glass, that she was already gone. He hadn’t laid a hand on her, but he had broken her just the same.

He hadn’t thought about that in decades. They had been so young and he had been even more cocksure than he was now. He'd never even been certain he wanted to reproduce, but Julia wanted bairns and damn him if he wasn't a fucking sucker for those eyes of hers. Tits were fucking phenomenal, too, if he was being honest. Once Julia had gone, he buried himself in work. That single-minded determination had, in fact, paid off in remarkable ways.

There had been other women, of course. He was no Colin Fucking Firth, but there was a certain charm to his arrogance and quick wit. He was not unaware of the effect he could have on a willing recipient. But it never lasted very long. Eventually, she asked to be seen with the same importance as his work and Malcolm was forced to chuck her. On one or two very lonely occasions, he had considered taking a dip into the pool of political groupies - men and women who flocked to authority figures, eagerly lapping up the crumbs of power. It had never seemed worth the possible scandal.

Kelly Grogan (now Kelly fucking Hewitt - and wasn't that the pickle in a shit-sandwich?) had been something of an exception. Kelly had been exactly the sort of woman a man of his years and standing should want. She was sophisticated, conniving, and driven. He had pursued her doggedly, romanced her ruthlessly. She put up just the right amount of resistance before succumbing to his carefully planned charisma. They fucked like they were locked in battle. It had been exhilarating for a time, until she realized he was never going to relent. She moved on to greener pastures and some part of him had been relieved to see her go. Even still, the day Kelly walked out, her lipstick still smudged on his cheek, Malcolm Tucker knew with absolute certainty that he was meant to be alone. She hadn’t broken his heart (frankly, he wasn’t sure how much there was left to break) but that was exactly the fucking point, wasn’t it? If he couldn’t make it work with a woman like Kelly, what was the point of even trying?

A tug at his trouser leg broke through his reverie. He looked down and straight into the round, upturned face of a little girl with flaming red hair.

“You’re about to step on Mrs. Primrose’s favorite gown.” She informed him peevishly. “It’s real Chinasilk.”

He gave an exaggerated hop backward “Oh! Oh my!” He pretended to wobble on one foot, flailing his arms, and the toddler giggled. He returned to standing on both feet and bowed elegantly. “My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Primrose.” He addressed the doll and turned back to the girl. “You are a most excellent friend, Miss…?”

“Amelia.” The girl gave a clumsy curtsy. “I’m the only big kid here. Momma said it would be fun, but they’re all babies and I’m so bored…” She drew out the vowels of the last two words, scrunching up her face and then rolling her eyes.

Malcolm laughed and glanced back at the house, still teaming as it was with activity. Clara would find him, eventually and probably give him an earful for being antisocial. In the meantime, the company of Amelia and Mrs. Primrose seemed infinitely preferable to that of the fucking parents.

***

The noise from the house had died down and someone had come out to inform them that Amelia’s mother was leaving. The ruddy-haired little one had flung her arms around his neck, going on about how he was her new best friend. Something had gotten in his eye as he hugged her back and he turned away from Clara’s appraising gaze to wipe it away.

“So, you don’t actually frighten small children at all… the Ministers would be shocked,” Clara teased, but there was softness in her tone that he wasn’t used to hearing.

He watched the small girl scramble off, clutching her toys. “Well, I wouldn’t go that fucking far. Perhaps not all children. Just the ones who think fancy suits and Oxbridge educations bought with their fucking family money will somehow make them good fucking leaders. Stupid cunts like that are easy to fucking frighten.” He looked back at her with a crooked grin.

She had gone very still, watching him with those large, dark eyes. A small smile played around her lips. Not for the first time that day, he had to firmly quash the urge to kiss her. Instead, he stood and offered her a hand. When she took it, he pulled a little too firmly, sending her off-balance. She giggled as he caught her, her hands gripping his forearms even as she regained her feet.

“Thank you,” she murmured, still looking at him in that way that felt like squirrels were fighting in his fucking stomach.

 “My fucking fault in the first place. Suppose I don’t know my own strength. Then again, you are quite a wee thing, aren’t you? No wonder Amelia took to you. Probably thought you were of a fucking age, yeah?” _Christ, he was fucking babbling, wasn’t he?_

He edged away, breaking contact, not trusting himself to be so near her. The ghosts of his past were still fresh in his mind. Clara could never be among their number. Even if he fully acknowledged he wanted to shag her ‘til she couldn’t walk for a fucking week. Even if she looked at him sometimes like she might just let him. It was ridiculous to even entertain the fucking notion. Because the fact was, he actually liked her. Genuinely and unabashedly enjoyed her company, sought out her opinion and trusted her judgment (within reason).

And Malcolm knew fucking better than to fuck a woman he actually _liked_.

There was a sound behind them and they both whirled round to see Sam, unburdened at last. She looked at him curiously for a moment, as if there was something she was trying to find. He swiped self-consciously at his mouth, wondering if he’d gotten food on his face.

“Really lovely party, Sam,” Clara asserted.

Sam smiled broadly. “Thank you! I’m sorry I was so busy; I feel like I barely got to talk to either of you. And of course, you’re the only ones I don’t see on the regular! The boys are down for a nap and the party is pretty much over, but you two are welcome to stay for dinner, if you like. What time does your train leave?”

Clara piped up, “In about an hour, but I think I can switch the tickets…” She turned to Malcolm, her face hopeful. “If that’s alright with you?”

He was about to remind her that just because they rode up together didn’t mean they had to fucking leave together. But those fucking eyes… they caught him out again and he found all he could do was nod. “Yeah, fine. Just let me make a couple calls. I’ll join you in the house in a bit.”

Clara bounced on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Great! I’ll switch to the later tickets!”

They both pulled out their phones. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sam staring at them with that same searching look. Then his attention was drawn away as his voicemail messages began to play.

***

Dinner was a quiet, informal affair of inexpensive take away. Clara’s offer to help tidy up was summarily dismissed.  As a present to themselves, Sam and Andrew had hired a maid service to come in the next day. Soon, the four of them lazed in the parlor, bellies pleasantly full of curry and leftover cake. Malcolm availed himself of an open bottle of very good Scotch that he suspected Sam had brought out in his honor. He felt his eyes growing heavy as Clara and Andrew discussed a mutual love of the Bronte sisters. Sam shifted closer to him and touched the back of his hand.

“Seems to be working out well.”

He blinked at her for a moment before realizing she was referencing Clara. “Oh, aye. You have a good eye. Would have, after all that time with me.”

Sam gave him an affectionate smile. “Busy as ever, I take it?”

“Mmm, busier. Nicola’s worse than a fucking nightmare now that her opinion polls aren’t in the shitter.”

Sam laughed softly. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever even gotten a proper ‘thank you’ from her…”

“And ruin the illusion she’s got any sort of fucking talent or use? Heaven for-fucking-bid.” He took a long pull from his glass. “She did try to shag me at last year’s Christmas party,” he added in a low, conspiratorial tone.

Sam raised both eyebrows, the question clear on her face.

“Christ no!” He exclaimed, making a face as though he had just tasted something particularly foul. “Even if I didn’t give a fuck about the scandal or her marriage, I’m not that hard up for it.” Before he could stop them, his eyes flicked to Clara. Her face was lit up as she animatedly told some sort of story about a former student. Andrew was a captive (if also slightly inebriated) audience. Malcolm looked down at his glass, biting back a smile.

 “Glad to hear it.” Sam sounded contemplative.

Sam was the thoughtful sort, always carefully considering her words. Malcolm found it one of her most endearing qualities. It was nice to see a functional brain at work. Very observant, that one. Didn’t miss a beat. He always suspected there was a great deal more that his trusted former PA could have said to him but tact always won out.

Unlike Clara, whose mouth oftimes ran a leap and bound ahead of her (admittedly also quite functional) brain. His gaze was pulled back to her, completely against his will and better judgment. He liked that dress on her. Unlike the untouchable elegance of her Gala gown, this one was soft and sweet, with just a hint of naughtiness in its keyhole neckline and flirty hemline. It suited her even more than the flimsy satin had.

She’d never get away with it at the office. Mostly because the longer she wore it, the more he desperately fucking wanted to remove it with his teeth.

He became aware of Sam’s gaze still on him and hurriedly turned his attention back to her. “Don’t suppose you miss being at number 10, eh? Got enough whinging, shitting, helpless babies ‘round here, I imagine. Plus the twins, of course.”

“Don’t make me put you in the time out corner, Mal,” Sam teased.

He gave her a crooked grin. _Good natured girl, Sam_.

He really didn’t dislike Andrew or their friends all that much. It had just been a hell of a fucking day, dredging up buried memories that not even Sam was privy to. He finished his drink and reached for the bottle to pour another, but noticed that it was empty.

_Oh._

_Well, at least he wasn’t fucking driving._


	6. Dirt

Far too early Sunday morning, there was a sharp staccato knocking at Clara’s front door. Bleary eyed, she stumbled down the stairs to answer it. It swung open to reveal Malcolm Tucker, as irate as she’d ever seen him.

“Why the fuck is Simon fucking Hewitt trying to dig up dirt on you?” He pointed a finger accusingly at her.

She blinked up at him trying to make the words he was spitting at her form proper sentences. “Wha? Dirt? What dirt?”

“That’s what I’d like to fucking know.” Malcolm growled. “Are you gonna fucking invite me in or do you want to do this on your front step?”

Clara stepped aside and he barreled in, slamming the door shut behind him. Hewitt… that name was familiar… Simon Hewitt she recognized from the papers but she’d never met the man. How could he… “Oh God…” She fell back against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut, as it all came back to her.

“God’s got naught to do with it, that I’m fucking sure of.” Malcolm shucked his jacket and threw it over the back of her sofa. “Why the fuck are you on that cunting cock-breath’s fucking radar, eh?” He rounded on her, blocking her in against the wall.

Clara’s heart began to beat rapidly. “I was going to tell you, I swear!” She opened her eyes, shocked into alertness. “It all happened so fast and then there was the Hitler moustache thing we had to bury and Sam’s party and we were having such a nice day, yesterday… I didn’t want to ruin it. And since nothing had happened I thought maybe it wasn’t that important...”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed to slits and he leaned down, so they were face to face. “What. Happened.” He grit out between clenched teeth.

She took a deep breath. “I… may have… told Mrs. Hewitt to shove off… at the PM’s Gala Dinner…” She shrank back, bracing herself for the inevitable bollocking.

“And?”

Clara searched her brain for any other relevant information. “And… that’s it… She was being really nasty about you…”

He backed up slightly and gave a derisive snort. “I don’t need you defending my fuckin reputation, love.”

“She insulted Sam.” Clara pursed her lips.

Malcolm moved away, scrubbing one hand over his face. “Fine. Right. Okay, so it’s a minor offense… Hewitt won’t call out the big dogs on this one.” He turned back to her. “But if there is anything for him to find, I’d better fucking hear it from you, first. Don’t think you get special treatment just because… you’re my fucking PA.”

“Of course not! I’d never expect…” The end of the sentence was swallowed by a yawn that turned into a sigh. She slunk away from the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. Now that the adrenaline was ebbing away, she felt cold and shaky. She slid onto her sofa, not meeting Malcolm’s eyes. “Look, there’s nothing to tell, ok? I’ve never broken a law, caused a scandal… I was a bloody schoolteacher…”

“Not good e-fucking-nough, Clara. Think. Is there anything that wouldn’t have turned up on the background check I ran? Your mother, your father, your boyfriend… girlfriend?” He paced as he talked, ticking the options off on his fingers.

“My mother’s dead, my father’s a knob sometimes but a law-abiding citizen. My last boyfriend… died.” Clara’s lower lip trembled and she bit down on it, hard.

Malcolm stopped in his tracks, skirting around the sofa to face her. “Any whiff of controversy? Could you have been implicated?”

Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked them angrily away. “It was a fucking car accident and no, I wasn’t implicated.” She spat, white hot grief curling in her belly and rising into her chest. “I wasn’t even there…”  She remembered that feeling all too well, that stifling, choking all-consuming misery. She hugged herself harder, willing away the unwanted memories.

Malcolm perched on the low table across from her. From her peripheral, she saw him reach for her with both hands before letting them drop away. “Clara….”

“I’m sorry… Oh God, I’m so sorry…” She choked as a sob threatened to overtake her. “You… should give me a bollocking. I deserve it. It’s all my fault…” _All my fault. All my fault. If I hadn’t called just then. If he hadn’t been on the phone with me when he was crossing that street… Oh God… My fault…_

“Clara. Look at me.”

The steel in his tone drew her out of herself again and she finally met his eyes. “I’m sorry…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Clara. Unless you were driving the fucking car…”

“I distracted him!” She shot to her feet and Malcolm rose with her, looking taken aback. “If I hadn’t called right when he was crossing that street… Christ…. If I hadn’t needed to tell him… just then… He’d have seen the bloody car.” She felt her face crumple, the effort of shouting her truth sapping all that was left of her will. “He’d have seen the bloody car…” She mumbled, the tears streaming down her cheeks at last. And then she was blanketed in warmth.

Malcolm wrapped his arms tightly around her as her head fell to his chest. She shuddered against him, helpless to hold back any longer. She was vaguely aware that he was whispering meaningless words of comfort into her hair. It just made her cry all the harder.

 _I don’t deserve this. Any of it._ She reminded herself, even as she sunk gratefully into his embrace.

At length, the tears began to run dry, as they had so many times before. She sniffed against him and he snaked a hand between them that bore a handkerchief. She took it with muffled thanks and pulled away to blow her nose. She sank back into her seat and Malcolm followed, this time sitting on the sofa beside her. He said nothing, letting her take all the time she needed to re-gather the scraps of her dignity. She glanced at him shyly from beneath her lashes.

“I suppose that wasn’t… exactly the response you were expecting.” She began hesitantly.

“Well… let’s face it – It’s not the first time I’ve made a woman cry and I doubt it will be the last.” His voice sounded strained and she looked up to search his face. His expression was forcibly neutral, giving nothing away.

She swallowed. “Thank you. And… I am sorry. You had every right to bollock me for that Kelly Hewitt fuck-up. You still can, if you like… I think I’m right cried out for the moment.” She offered him a weak smile.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t know about that… for a wee little thing, you’ve got a wellspring of fucking tears in there… “ He glanced down at the damp tracks on his white shirt. “Better not find any fucking mascara stains…”

Clara laughed before she could stop herself. “It’s 7am on a Sunday morning… why on earth would I be wearing mascara? What, do you think I sleep in the stuff? I haven’t even had my tea yet!”

Malcolm shrugged, a boyish grin tugging at his lips. “Well, then perhaps you ought to put on some trousers and we’ll go get you some breakfast.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Aren’t you still upset with me?”

He nodded. “Oh aye. Irate. Fucking furious. But I can yell some more after breakfast. Go put on some trousers.”

Clara suppressed a smile. “Right. Ok.” Unable to resist, she leaned forward and hugged him around both shoulders, pressing her lips lightly to his cheek. As she reached the stairs she stopped. “By the way… I’d like to ignore what I said earlier. I think I do like being... treated differently.”

He blinked at her. “Trousers. Now.”

Clara grinned and went to do as she was told.

***

Malcolm Tucker blinked stupidly into the empty space of Clara’s living room long after her footsteps receded.

What in seven fucking hells had just happened?

When he had seen the text message from Angela Heeney at _who the fuck is sending texts at this hour, I may have to crucify them_ O’clock, he had been instantly enraged. Of course, he had also been bloody hung-over from overindulging at Sam’s.

The train ride home the night before had been a bit of a blur, but he thought he remembered Clara laying her arm on his, so they could share the armrest. He might even have remembered taking her hand in his. Possibly making some comment about her surprisingly adept typing skills for one with such pathetically small hands.

Malcolm very rarely allowed himself more than a nip or two and certainly not in company. And he could hold his fucking Scotch – fuck you very much. But there was something about Sam’s cozy home and proximity of those he had somehow grown to trust (to the extent that he could trust anyone). That atmosphere combined with the stirring of long dead sorrows may have allowed him to tip back a glass or five more than usual.

Heeney’s early morning warning that Hewitt was trying to make his PA a news story had seemed so completely fucking out of the blue. Despite the pounding head and lack of sleep, he’d needed answers, then and there. So, like any reasonable, concerned boss, he had driven across town to wake up said PA and demand them. It was absolutely about reaching the truth and not a whit about protecting Clara from a potential media shitstorm. Not that he thought they would find anything, of course. His own background check on her had been fucking thorough. He had known about a dead boyfriend from the obituary mentioning her name. He had not, however, known any of the details or realized that she harbored some secret guilt about it. It had been nearly two years and all, high time she let that shite go. Not that he was one to talk about letting things go...

But he wasn’t her fucking therapist. He ought to have hightailed it out the moment he saw the waterworks starting. Somehow the idea had not even passed through his mind. Christ, he was getting fucking soft in his old age.

 _Well, in a manner of speaking_.

Various parts of his anatomy might disagree with that assessment. In the past week, he had woken up every morning harder than a priest at a playground, just a little more _eager_ than usual to get to work. Even the lightening bolts of pain lancing through his temple hadn’t deterred it, this morning. Luckily, the tumescence had subsided on the drive over. The headache on the other hand…

He ran a hand through his hair once more, groaning quietly. “Have you got any fuckin Paracetamol, love?” He shouted toward the stairway. 

There was a banging noise. “Yeah. I’ll bring some down.” Another clatter and then she was descending the stairs.

“Catch.” She tossed the bottle underhanded and he caught it.

After popping 3 pills and tucking another three in a pocket for later, he rose from the sofa and they were off. Unfamiliar with her neighborhood, he let her pick the restaurant but insisted on paying. _Because he was a fucking gentleman and not because this was a fucking date._

Even if they did walk there with her arm tucked through his.

Even if their knees kept accidentally bumping under the small café table, resulting in a nervous giggle from Clara and a smile he kept trying to suppress.

 _Not a fucking date._ He reminded himself. The girl had just been fucking sobbing over her dead boyfriend a couple of fucking hours ago! _And how had a couple of hours passed, already? How long had they been sitting at a café, talking about nothing in particular?_ According to the surreptitious glance at his watch, they had, in fact been there a little over 2 hours. It was the longest Malcolm Tucker had tolerated the company of just one person while sober or not at work in… he couldn’t fucking remember how long.

And it was… surprisingly fucking pleasant.

She was telling some story about her Nan. She was animated, smiling, her eyes sparkling with humour. She was fucking beautiful and he was fucking doomed because he could think of far worse ways to spend a fucking Sunday.

Just as he was contemplating taking her hand again (to prove he could do it sober) they were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Tucker? What on Earth are you doing in this part of town?”

He looked up sharply, hackles rising. “Burying fucking bodies. What the fuck do you think? I’m having fucking breakfast.”

Geoff Parker, gossip hound for the Mirror, grinned down at the two of them. Irritatingly fucking smug cunt that he was, he had obviously already come to the exact worst conclusion. “Didn’t think you did things like eat or sleep, Tucker. Would make you too much like the rest of us peasants, eh?” He laughed at his own non-joke. “ Well, and who is this lovely creature joining you?” He extended a hand to Clara, who forced a tight smile and shook it.

“That is my fucking PA and if you don’t mind we’ve got some work to get to.” Malcolm made a dismissive gesture with one hand.

“Work to do? On this fine Sunday morning?  A bit far from Downing Street aren’t we?” Dripping with condescension, Geoff addressed this last part to Clara.

 _Ever the prying fucking weasel…_ Malcolm bit back a snarl.

Clara shot a quick, questioning glance at Malcolm, then turned back to Geoff. “Marvelous thing, technology. Can work from anywhere. But really, Mr…..?”

“Parker. Please, call me Geoff.” The man simpered.

“Mr. Parker,” Clara continued politely, with just that little edge that showed she was reaching the end of her patience, “We do have an awful lot to get finished now that we’ve had our coffees. Thank you ever so for stopping by.” She plastered on a smile, blinking expectantly at him.

Geoff raised an eyebrow at them both. Clara kept smiling, Malcolm kept glaring. They must have made for quite a fucking sight, really.

“Yeah, alright.” Geoff stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “Nice meeting you.” He shuffled off, defeated.

As soon as the grubby little man was out of sight, Malcolm rose from the table, throwing a few pounds down to cover the extra time they had taken. The wait staff had been very accommodating, after all. “Let’s go.” He muttered to Clara.

“Why? He’s gone. We can go back to enjoying our day.” She observed, without moving from her seat.

Malcolm shifted restlessly. “Yeah, well, you seem to be a fucking press magnet today and I’ve got fucking phone calls to make. Stay if you like, I’ve got to get back to my car.”

He’d been a prime fucking idiot, thinking they could spend the day as just two fucking people who might ( _possibly, if he was reading this correctly_ _– and he usually was_ ) fancy one another.

Cursing his very public image, Malcolm stalked off in the direction of Clara’s flat.


	7. Bad Decisions

A week had gone by since the incident at the café. A few calls around at the Mirror ensured that no one would get the wrong ( _right?_ ) impression of Malcolm Tucker’s relationship with his PA. Even still, he kept his distance from Clara, even at the office. The following week was a four day conference in Washington DC, so they spent most of their time prepping for that, anyway. No time for idle flirtation with a million fucking briefs to prepare. He hated to be gone for so long, but Tom had insisted he go for all four days. There were some battles not worth fighting.  

The overnight flight was uneventful. He dozed slightly and took a long shower at the hotel. The first round of meetings went by in a flash of meaningless pleasantries and Starbucks coffees. The break he got for lunch seemed as good a time as any to pop back to his room and check in with the office. Make sure no one had set his fucking desk on fire in his absence. And if it was a good excuse to talk to the women who had been a little too much on his mind lately… so fucking be it.

“So, how is DC, then?” Clara answered on the first ring.

 “Hot. Noisy. The VP fuckin’ hates me, already.” He grinned.

Clara made a soft noise at the back of her throat. “Obviously a man of discerning taste. What must that be like for you?”

“Ouch, got your fuckin claws out already, kitten?”

She sighed. “Sorry, Malcolm… It’s been a bloody _day_. I feel like I’ve talked to every member of the media in Britain, assuring them that yes, Anjelica Martin is still in office. No that massive cock-up had nothing to do with her Ministry. No, she isn’t resigning… Ugh. How about you?”

 “In between meetings. Drafting Anjelica Martin’s letter of resignation, as we speak, actually. It’ll be in your inbox any moment.”

There was silence.

“Clara?” he prompted.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Softly? With your song?”

“No. Slowly. Painfully. With my gardening shears.”

“You haven’t got gardening shears,” he needled.

She huffed. “How do you know? Have you got an inventory of my belongings, somewhere?”

“Yes.”

He could almost hear her roll her eyes.

“God, you’re even worse when you think you’re being funny. Alright, how about a steak knife? Is that on the list of plausible murder weapons?”

He affected a tone of serious contemplation. “Hmm yeah, I’ll accept that.”

“Oh good. Would hate to kill you with anything that didn’t meet your exacting standards. Would you like it if I got Angela Heaney’s fingerprints on it, as well? I know I wouldn’t mind sending her away for a good long while.”

He made a sound of disgust. “Heaney? What a waste of a death. If you’re going to frame someone, you can do fucking better than Heaney.”

“Oh, and who do you suggest?”

“Tom,” he answered immediately.

“As in Tom the Prime Minister? Of Great Britain?”

“Aye. That’s the one.”

 “But I thought you rather liked Tom?”

“Like’s got fuck all to do with it. But can you imagine the legacy? Killed by the fucking PM. That’s one for the fucking books.”

She sounded as though she was stifling a chuckle. “Hmm. Maybe I ought to just wipe it clean. No fingerprints and they’ll never narrow it down. Far too many people with motive. Half the ministers will want the others to believe they were powerful enough to make it happen and the other half will leave town, afraid they’ll be implicated,” she finished triumphantly.

_Fucked if that didn’t make him want to reach through the phone and stick his tongue down her throat…_

“Devious bint,” he murmured. “I think you just gave me a fucking erection.”

“You’re in DC, yelling at Americans. I’d be shocked if you haven’t been hard all day.”

“Only since you called, love.”

A pause. “Well then, perhaps you ought to do something about that.”

At first blush, it seemed like a dismissal. But when he hesitated and Clara did not end the call, Malcolm’s heart leapt into his throat. _Did she mean…? She couldn’t be fucking suggesting that he… that they…_

That hypothetical erection was quickly becoming a dangerous fucking reality.

“Malcolm?”

Realizing he had been silent too long, Malcolm cleared his throat. “Yeah. I’m… I’m here.”

“You could always order a porno, if that helps.” Clara suggested playfully, but there was a false cheerfulness to her tone that set him on edge.

“It’s 1pm here, love. I save my wanking for fucking bedtime. Got another fucking meeting, anyway.”

“Oh.” She sounded almost disappointed. _Strange fucking bird he’d snared, wasn’t she?_

_Was she his?_

_Could he have...?_ Taking a deep breath, he continued in a conversational tone. “Actually, I’ve been thinking…. The next four days are packed fucking tighter than Fat Pat’s bra. I’d like to fly you out to help.”

  _I’d like to get you alone. In a foreign city. Away from London’s prying eyes and the Geoff cunting Parkers._

_Christ, what the fuck was he doing?_

Clara inhaled sharply. “I thought you wanted me to hold down the fort here. In fact, when you left you actually said ‘Clara, you hold down the fort, here.’ Only you said it with more profanity, of course.”

He frowned. _This was a bad fucking idea, anyway. Just let her be the sensible one and say no._

“Well I’ve changed my fucking mind, haven’t I? Look, you’re the one who made that fucking pouty face when I said you couldn’t come with me. Do you want to fucking come to fucking DC or don’t you?”

“Yes! Absolutely! When do you need me there?”

 _Right now and naked as the fucking day you were born._ He thought, palming himself through his trousers.

What he said aloud was, “Book a fucking overnight on my card. Go home, pack a bag. Bring your laptop. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Brilliant! See you there!” And she ended the call.

_Oh God, was he really fucking doing this?_

***

Clara’s heart was pumping so fast and so loud, it nearly drowned out the sound of DC traffic. It was dizzying to take in and the 3 hours she had managed to doze on the plane were not helping her process.

Her first trip to America… Staying in a four star hotel….

With her boss…

Whom she was recently realizing she very, very much wanted to strip her naked and throw her on a bed. Perhaps a hotel bed, with 1000 thread count sheets. In a four star hotel. In Washington DC.

 _Focus Clara._ She scolded herself. It was just as likely that Malcolm really did call her out here to help. She had wrapped up the Anjelica Martin situation far earlier than anyone had thought. Malcolm’s email explained that the order had come from Tom, himself. There was nothing more that could have been done.

 Ok, so the invitation had been issued during the same conversation in which she had all but offered him phone sex.

Ok, so he had taken her out to breakfast after her little breakdown a week ago, the two of them strolling arm in arm to her favorite café.

Ok, so he had held her hand on the train home from Sam’s house.

Clara’s strong suit had never been math, but even she could add that up in her head. Malcolm Tucker fancied her. But he was still her boss.

And shagging your boss was always a remarkably stupid plan. Especially since she wanted to move up in the world. If the vultures at the Mirror or any of the other gossip rags got one whiff of scandal… well. She’d be fucked. Malcolm could probably spin it out and walk away smelling like a rose. But Clara’s reputation might never recover.

It was such an utter cliché… the young ingénue falling for the charms of her older, more experienced mentor. Or if they were feeling particularly vindictive, she would be the eager ladder-climbing opportunist who seduced her employer for the opportunity of career advancement.

Either way, it didn’t paint a pretty picture. So, why was she here? Why fly 8 bloody hours to do work she very likely could have done at home?

_Because she bloody well wanted to!_

She huffed to herself and the driver peeked at her in his rearview mirror.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

She stopped herself from making a face at the familiarity of the address. “Yeah. I’m fine thanks.”

“You’re English right?” He asked

“Yes.”

“Here on vacation?”

“No.” She tried to stay polite but clipped, hoping he would not try to make additional conversation.

No such luck.

“Ever been to America before?” He prodded.

“No.”

“Oh man, well don’t fall into those usual tourist traps, ok? Not that monuments aren’t great but people always overlook the other sights, you know? I got some coupons for the Museum of Health and Medicine, if you want them. I know it doesn’t sound too exciting but they have this display, right? It’s the actual bullet that killed Lincoln. Bits of skull and everything. And this megacolon exhibit.. .well you gotta see it to believe some of the stuff – “  

She sighed as she forced herself to interrupt the man’s chatter. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but it was a very long flight and I’ve really got a lot of work to do…”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Yeah, ok. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I’m just…very tired.”

“No problem. We’re almost at the hotel.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the road.

Clara slumped into her seat, feeling tetchy and wrung out and all sorts of tense. Not the way she’d hoped to start out her first trip to D.C….

***

Malcolm was pacing the hotel room again. He had been pacing off and on since she walked in the door. Probably before. The cab driver had dropped her at the front entrance about four hours ago. She’d checked into the room she’d booked, taking a few minutes to shower and change before meeting Malcolm in his room. The weather was sticky and hot outside. The air conditioning in the hotel helped but she had thrown on a breezy skirt and blouse with a cardie over top, just in case they ended up out of doors.

He’d thrust an itinerary at her, wordlessly, the moment he saw her. She groaned inwardly and went straight to work, retyping it to include his many scribbled notes. The Americans had added two events and moved three around. The whole thing was a mess. The file that they’d spent the week before he left preparing had been tabled for another time. Now, there was a whole other file to prepare and half of it was not even fact-checked, yet. Tom had dismissed Malcolm from the rest of the meetings to work on it.  Since she sat down they had been hacking away at it, tirelessly. Whenever Malcolm got stuck for an idea, he took to pacing again.

It occurred to Clara that she had just flown across an ocean and all she was likely to see was the inside of hotel rooms, the carpet being steadily worn down by Malcolm’s restless feet.

“Malcolm…” She began.

He shook his head.

He wasn’t ready to talk. If he fucking talked, he’d say something he’d regret. Gone was the foolish hopeful notion that this trip could be anything but business. The fucking Americans and Tom, with that pathetic little apologetic smile, had made right fucking certain of that.

Weeks of work and they wanted it done in 2 days. 2 fucking days. Cunts.

He wanted to punch his fist through the wall. He wanted to glass the fucking VP and start a fucking pub brawl, Motherwell rules.

And most of all, with Clara in that skirt, lying on his bed like she fucking well belonged there, he wanted to climb on top of her and fuck her into the mattress until neither of them could remember they had names.

But he had sense enough to realize that their flirtation had not advanced to that stage – if it was ever going to.

So, he paced.

After she’d watched him for some time, Clara climbed from the bed. She approached cautiously, as she might a wild animal. “Look, we can call out of this afternoon’s conference. You don’t need to be there, anyway. I’ve already started emailing the Ministries for the data. If we work late tonight and tomorrow, there’s no reason we can’t turn in _something_.”

He muttered something unintelligible (and probably obscene).

Taking a deep breath, Clara placed herself squarely in his path. He stopped short, looking affronted.

“You’re just going to make yourself sick and I didn’t fly all the way out here to play nursemaid. I’m here to help. Let me help.” She threw her hands out in exasperation when he didn’t respond. “Malcolm, tell me what you fucking need!”

_What did he fucking need?_

He blinked at her stupidly. For a moment, he genuinely couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about what _he_ needed. Not the government. Not the Party. Not the fucking PM.

What did Malcolm fucking Tucker actually fucking need?

Before he could let himself think it through he’d grabbed both of her tiny hands in his, dipping his face down until it was level with hers. They were so close, he could feel her breath across his lips. So close, he could see her pupils dilate.

“I _need_ to get the fuck out of this hotel room.” He growled.

 Clara nodded, suddenly breathless. “Ok.”

He dropped one of her hands but kept the other tucked in his as he straightened up. “Any ideas? No fucking monuments.”

Clara grinned, remembering her taxi ride. “Yeah, I think I have one.”


	8. Tonight

The Museum ended up being a resounding success, despite being a much longer drive than she had anticipated. Malcolm had suggested taking a cab to avoid any of the usual drivers knowing how to find them. He paid the fare without a word and left a hefty tip, besides. The displays at the museum were informative, morbid, and just this side of repulsive. They seemed to cheer up Malcolm immensely. Of all the times he had been to DC, he had rarely left the capitol.

Several times throughout the day, he leaned in to murmur in her ear, his breath tickling her and making her shiver. His hand often settled in the small of her back as they stood side by side, his thumb moving in little circles. It was all very informal and surprisingly pleasant. They talked about anything but work – her father’s most recent divorce, Malcolm's aversion to anything containing spinach. He made jokes that were not at her expense and she let herself stop overthinking for just a few hours.

The tension in her stomach stayed coiled, but it was overlaid with a comforting warmth that had nothing to do with the hot sun outside.

The left the museum with her arm tucked into the crook of his elbow, her head resting occasionally against his shoulder as they strolled. There weren’t very many options for food and it was nearly time for supper.  So, they took another cab back into the city. As they drove toward the more recognizable parts of the capitol, Malcolm narrated their ride.

“And here is the famous inn where Thomas Jefferson took a massive shit in some year that no one really cares about anymore.” He gestured with one hand, droning monotonously.

Clara giggled. “You really have been forced on too many of those tours, haven’t you?”

He grinned crookedly. “And if you squint, in the distance, you’ll see America’s massive fucking cock. They had it built to remind the rest of the world how much it will hurt if they decide to fuck you.”

Clara pressed both hands to her mouth to keep herself from laughing too loudly in the small, enclosed cab. Malcolm looked quite pleased with himself.

They eventually settled on a restaurant that was walking distance to the hotel, but not close enough that the rest of the party might find it. Once again, Malcolm insisted on footing the bill.

Clara pursed her lips at him. “You know, I can pay for my own food.”

He shrugged. “I pay you. So, really I’m paying for it, either way. Why not cut out the fucking middle man?”

She rolled her eyes fondly and affected a sigh.

“Middle _woman_ , sorry,” he corrected. “No mistaking you for a man in that get-up.”

Her mouth formed an automatic moue. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

His brows knit, eyes still cautiously amused. “Not everything I say is a fucking criticism, love.”

“Since when?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Since you wore that fucking blouse. Is it even legal for you to be wearing it in public?”

Her blouse was, admittedly, a little sheer in direct sunlight. She hadn’t worn it since last summer and she must have somehow forgotten that when she packed it. She gave him a sheepish grin. “Would you like me to cover it up?”

“God no,” he answered immediately, his voice dropping to a lower register.

The unequivocal note of desire in his reply shot straight to her core and she pressed her thighs together. She swallowed hard, her eyes searching his.

_Oh God what am I doing?_

Could they have this? Could they keep just this one night off the record and scratch an itch that was obviously driving them both mad? There were no reporters around. This early in the evening everyone from the Party would still be tied up in meetings or off drinking at the hotel bar. Yes, there was work to be done, but Clara felt confident they could work all day tomorrow and turn in a satisfactory (if extremely edited down) report.

 _What happens in DC…_ she thought, wildly.

“Get a drink with me,” she blurted.

It was his turn to raise both eyebrows. He lifted the merlot he had ordered with supper. “It seems I already have.”

Clara gave him a long suffering smile. “I mean a real drink. Let’s find a pub after this and make a night of it.”

He studied his glass, one long finger tracing the rim. “We still have a lot of fucking work to do.”

“And it will still be there tomorrow. I have a few ideas to streamline the process. Give me tomorrow and I’ll have it sorted. But first… give me tonight.” She didn’t want to beg to make him see reason. But surely he was thinking the same thing she was. Otherwise, why invite her out here in the first bloody place? Why spend an afternoon touching her, making her laugh, slowly but surely lowering her guard….

His eyes flicked back up to meet hers as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Is that what you want? Tonight?”

Her mouth was dry, heart in her throat. “Yes.”

His tongue darted out to moisten his lips and Clara felt a pulse in her lower belly. _Oh, yes. Tonight was exactly what she wanted._

Just as she was beginning to think he would change his mind and insist they return to the room to work, he drained the remainder of his wine glass. Making a face at the less than stellar quality, he rose from the seat, stepping around the table to offer her a hand. She took it and he pulled her to her feet.

“Let’s go find a fucking pub, then.”

***

Several hours later, Clara had discovered that it took at least three times as much alcohol to get Malcolm Tucker tipsy as it did to get her quite pleasantly pissed. Not wishing-she-were-dead-in-the -morning pissed. Just sloshed enough to lower the inhibitions she had left. Enough that she felt comfortable cornering Malcolm in their darkened booth, straddling his lap, and pressing her mouth to his.

Despite not being nearly as inebriated, he seemed unfazed by the very public display. In fact, those were definitely his hands sliding up her thighs to knead at her arse. It briefly flit through her mind that she ought to have worn a thong, but he certainly didn’t seem to mind.

He tasted her mouth with fervent interest, finding those little places that made her keen and moan. She ground down, appreciatively, on the very prominent bulge tenting the front of his trousers. He shifted in his seat, raising her hips away from his, and she whimpered her disappointment. Then she noticed that one of his hands had moved to explore her inner thigh. The other hand splayed flat on her lower back, holding her in place.

His questing fingers pressed insistently against the damp cloth of her knickers and she gasped. One long digit insinuated itself between fabric and flesh teasing the place that was currently desperate for touch. She bucked against him, greedy for more contact. He made a tsking noise and withdrew his hand.

He pulled her in to whisper darkly in her ear. “This won’t work if you insist on being so fucking obvious, love.”

“Can’t help it…” She nibbled on his earlobe.

“Then perhaps we ought to get out of here…” he suggested in a tone that made her toes curl.

“Yes… let’s…” She panted.

They managed to remain presentable walking through the hotel lobby, although there was no one there to recognize them, anyway.

Clara’s head was spinning and she knew full well it wasn’t from the drinks. The moment Malcolm had bolted the door behind them, he reached for her. She felt her back hit the wall behind her, Malcolm pressing against her, hot and hard against her belly. His tongue stroked hers and his hands were everywhere all at once. Somehow he had managed to get her shirt half unbuttoned before she even noticed. She giggled and pulled away from him just enough to remove both shirt and bra.

He licked his lips, eyeing her hungrily. “Fucking hell… I knew they’d be fucking perfect.”

She bit her lip. “Your turn.”

“Oh, I’m afraid my tits don’t look nearly as nice as yours, bra or no bra.”

She giggled again, yanking at his tie to pull him back to her and claim his mouth once more. While he was distracted by her teasing tongue, she stripped him of jacket and shirt. She’d unbuckled his belt by the time he noticed enough to still her hands.

“You’re not playing fair, love,” he growled against her lips.

“How so?” She stepped back and cocked her head to the side.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He arched one thick brow.

She unzipped her skirt and let it pool at her feet. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked up at him expectantly.

His throat worked as his eyes raked over her. “Fucking perfect,” he muttered and pushed his trousers down, never taking his gaze off of her.

Sober, Clara might have found the intensity galling. As it was, she felt his eyes on her like a caress, moisture pooling between her legs. “Well?” She prompted.

With a wicked grin, he stepped out of his trousers and shoes, peeling off both socks as he went. He straightened and his cock jutted prominently toward her, straining against his pants. Her mouth watered as she took in the sight.

_Well, now I see why he’s always so bloody self-assured…_

He closed the distance between them, dipping his head to run the tip of his tongue up the length of her neck. She sighed with pleasure and he nipped at her collarbones. He walked her backwards, hands grasping at her arse, until her knees hit the edge of the enormous mattress. She sat automatically, finding herself face to face – or head to head, as it were – with his cock. She mouthed at it through the cotton of his pants and he groaned. Encouraged, she slid her thumbs beneath the elastic and pulled the undergarment away. He stepped out if it and kicked it to the side.

He was thick and heavy in her hand, moisture already beading at the tip. She flicked her tongue across tip, tasting the saltiness, and he cursed inarticulately. Pulling back the foreskin, she swirled her tongue around the head. His hands settled in her hair, surprisingly gentle as he pushed it away from her face. Angling her head up to capture his gaze, she took him fully in her mouth. His mouth fell open and it tickled her to no end to see him completely speechless, for once. It was a memory she knew she would carry with her back across the ocean, to hold onto for lonely nights.

At the back of her mind, she had to remind herself that this was only for tonight. She couldn’t get used to this because it could never happen back home. There was a distinct sadness to that thought that felt completely out of place while stretching her lips around his cock.  She slid up and down his length, working into a rhythm. He placed both hands on her shoulders.

“If you don’t stop… ‘tonight’ will be over a lot fucking sooner than I think either of us had in mind” He rasped.

She released him with a popping sound and grinned. “And what fun would that be, eh?”

He wagged both eyebrows. “My thoughts exactly.” He nodded for her to move back onto the bed. “Your turn.”

Clara eagerly scoot backwards until she hit the headboard. Malcolm crawled onto the bed, settling between her legs with his head at her breasts. Balancing on one elbow, he grasped one breast in his hand, rolling its tight peak between two fingers. She arched into his touch with a sigh. He kissed each puckered nipple, lathing one and then the other with his tongue and nibbling the sensitive undersides of each breast. She hummed her approval.

He kissed, licked and nibbled his way down her ribs, stomach, and hips until Clara was writhing beneath him. Once he reached her knickers, he lipped at the elastic, grasping the band between his teeth and pulling them off.

Caught between laughter and a flood of desire, she commented, incredulously, “I didn’t think people actually did that…”

He gave her a crooked grin, eyes glinting in the low light. “Amateurs.”

Clara did laugh, then, but the sound quickly became a moan as Malcolm curled his tongue into her dripping core. He worked her with his mouth and long, sinuous fingers until she was begging him mindlessly for more.

After what may have been an eternity of teetering on the edge, he pushed her over by plunging two long digits into her and twisting them just so. She screamed her release, head grinding against the downy pillows. As she panted into the darkness, she heard him moving. The crinkle of a condom foil brought her attention around again.

“Prepared, where you?” She teased.

“Couldn’t you tell I was a fucking boy scout?”

The bed dipped beside her and she felt surge of renewed energy. With nominal force, she had flipped him onto his back and straddled his lean hips.

“Should have known you liked it on top,” he mumbled.

“Are you complaining?” She asked, one hand grasping his cock to align it with her entrance. She eased down on the head, her walls already fluttering around the sizable intrusion.

“Fuck! No, not fucking complaining. No complaining here…”

She slid down his full length with a gasp. He responded with a string of half-enunciated expletives. Clara rocked her hips experimentally. He felt fucking amazing inside her. She reminded herself once more not to get too used to this, but considered perhaps they could do it a few more times before heading back to London…

Before long, she lost the rhythm as she began climbing that peak once more. His hands grasped at her hips, hard, his narrow hips bucking beneath her. She gave up on setting the pace as he took over, pounding into her and hitting that spot that she knew would make her unravel. He moved one hand to her clit and sent her soaring. He spilled himself with a cry as she was still shuddering around him.

She collapsed onto his chest, enjoying the scent of his sweat mingled with sex and cologne. Eventually, he began to soften and grabbed the top of the condom to keep it from leaking. She rolled to the side as he pulled out. As her heart rate returned to normal, she heard him tying up the condom and tossing it into the bin. 

“I’m not that girl, you know…” She broke the silence.

“What girl?” His voice was rough with drowsiness

“The one who shags her boss.”

He snorted. “I beg to differ.”

“Come on, you know what I mean.” Clara rolled to her side, facing him. “God… can you imagine what they’d say if we’d done that in London? Ollie would probably jump off a building…” She squinted but couldn’t make out his facial expression in the low light.

“Clara… that was… I mean, back in London, we can’t….”

It wasn’t like him to sound so… uncertain. Clara pursed her lips. “I know. I said just for tonight and I meant it.” And a bloody shame it was… but they both had reputations to protect…  “Don’t worry, I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone,” she added, to reassure him.

In profile, she saw his Adam’s apple bob once, then again. “…yes. Of course.” He pulled himself to a sitting position, swinging his legs toward the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up. I’ve got work to do.” Stark naked, he crossed to the desk by the curtained window where he’d left his laptop.

 _What on Earth?_ Clara took a breath. “Malcolm… it’s 4am and you’ve had half a bottle of Scotch.”

“How do you think I usually work?” he asked, his tone low and forcibly casual.

Clara sat up, her brow creasing. Something had upset him, but what? She wracked her alcohol addled, post-orgasmic mind, but only found herself more confused. “Do you… would you like me to help?”

“No, I’d like it done correctly,” he replied tersely.

She huffed. “Jesus, are you always this tetchy after you’ve shagged a girl rotten?”

“You’re fucking well rat-arsed and I don’t have a fucking margin for error on this report.” He opened the laptop and started it up.

 “I thought we agreed to save it for tomorrow…”

His shoulders rose and fell in silhouette. “Yeah well, that’s what I get for thinking with the wrong fucking head.”

Clara shook her head, as though that would somehow clear it. “Come back to bed, Malcolm. I promise we’ll get it done in the morning.”

“Look, if you want another go, I’m afraid ‘tonight’ is already over. I can’t afford to waste any more fucking time stuffing your fucking muff.” He wasn’t even looking at her anymore, his eyes trained on the laptop screen. His expression hard in the pale blue light.

Clara bolted from the bed, quaking with building rage. “Fucking hell! If you wanted me to leave, you could have just said so. You didn’t have to be such a complete bastard about it!” She gathered the pieces of clothing she could locate, pulling them on haphazardly with shaking hands.

He made a dismissive noise. “In case you hadn’t noticed love, I _am_ a complete bastard. Not my problem if you’ve got shite taste when your blood’s running hot.”

Tears threatened to prick her eyes as she pulled up the zip on her skirt. “Fuck you, Malcolm.”

“Already have, thanks.”

Clara made a sound of disgust and slammed the door as she left.


	9. Regrets

He never should have fucking touched her.

Not that that bit of hindsight did him any fucking good, now.

Malcolm hadn’t expected her to show up early that next morning, ready to work. Part of him had anticipated a text telling him she’d flown back to London, that her resignation would be on his desk. Instead, shortly after sunrise, she was at his door, clutching a coffee and not meeting his eyes.

“Still work to do.” She announced dully, deliberately avoiding contact as she pushed past him. He nodded and handed her an extra notepad. They worked on the brief for hours, communicating mainly through clipped emails and terse notes in the margin. Sullen silence pervaded the room.

He could tell she was fucking sulking since he’d given her the brush-off. The irony of it choked him.

_“I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone,”_ she’d said. Casual as you fucking please. As though it were only the most obvious response to having fucked the infamous Malcolm Tucker.

And perhaps it was. Perhaps he’d been fucking deluding himself too long, now. He wasn’t exactly any girl’s fucking dream date, was he? He wasn’t young or kind or romantic. He was unpleasant at best, well past his prime, and married to his fucking job.

Oh, he was powerful, enough. And he had money to spare. But Clara showed no interest in either of those things. So, why go to bed with him in the first fucking place? Because she was liquored up and far from home, most like. Because this job ate your life and even pretty birds like Clara struggled to find time to date a proper man - one who wasn’t a hollow husk of fury and spite, with years of frustration and pain etched into his hoary flesh. Little wonder she flirted with him at the office. His was the only face she saw, some days.

Perhaps he had no right to complain. When was the last time he’d touched anything nearly so fucking fresh and desirable? She’d had an itch to scratch and he had been more than happy to fucking oblige, at the time.

But she’d only wanted him for the night. For a lark, a thrill, whatever.

Malcolm Tucker was no one’s wild fucking oat to sow. He was the one to make the rules, to bend others to his fucking iron will. He didn’t get used by Blackpool bints looking for kicks. And he certainly hadn’t expected it from Clara.

Only a short time ago, he had sworn to himself that he would never sleep with Clara Oswald, even if she gave him half a chance. But something had happened that day at her flat. Her guilt, her vulnerability had somehow pierced through the armor he’d spent decades constructing. He had been flustered, confused, and hopelessly fucking frustrated in the days that followed.

Because he didn’t just like her. He didn’t just desire her. He wanted to fucking protect her. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, press his lips to her hair, and chase out all the demons. He wanted to feel her to slip her hand into his as they walked down the street. He wanted to spend Sunday mornings in bed poking fun at all the ridiculous Ministry cock-ups from the previous week.

And he was fucking terrified.

Of course he hadn’t been able to take her out proper in London, anyway. That little display in the bar could never have happened on their home turf. They were both too careful of causing a scandal. But he had weighed the risks more than once. Fucking Geoff’s fucking smug smile, seeing them at the café, loomed in his mind, a clear reminder of the line they shouldn’t cross in public.

Some senseless, indulgent part of him had thought that DC was a chance to show her what she was missing. Get her engine revved, as it were. He hadn’t intended to take her to bed that night. But when she was so eager, how could he have said no? He’d been dying to taste her for weeks.

Now, he wished he could wash the memory of her from his tongue.

That was the worst of it, really. Because every time their eyes accidentally met or their fingertips inadvertently brushed, all he could think about was the way she felt clenching around him. He typed up notes on foreign policy as a soundtrack of Clara’s breathy moans played in his head. He sipped at his coffee and longed to savor the salt-sweat of her skin on his lips.

Christ, he was fucking pathetic.

And yet part of him wanted to swallow the bitter sea of his pride, drop to his knees and beg her for another go. Even if it meant nothing. Even if she’d still be ashamed of it when they left DC.

He grit his teeth and forced himself to refocus on the texts Tom was sending from the afternoon meeting. His stomach grumbled loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before. He ignored it. Apparently not willing to be so easily dismissed, it grumbled again, even louder.  In his peripheral, he saw Clara’s head raise.

“I’m hungry, too,” she said quietly, in that same flat tone as before.

“Room service?” He suggested, not turning to look at her.

She nodded, making no attempt to move.

Before it could turn into a war of wills over who would go for it, he crossed the room to grab the menu.  Crossing back, he held it out to her. “Order whatever you like. I’ll charge it to the room.”

She eyed it for a second, nibbling her lower lip, before taking it from him. “Thanks.”

When the food arrived, they ate in silence, eyes still fixed on their respective screens. About halfway through her meal, Clara pushed her plate away with a loud exhalation. Malcolm looked up, unsure what to expect.

“Is this what it’s going to be like, from now on?”

He looked at her, wide-eyed and unblinking. “Sorry?”

“No, you’re not.” She tilted her head to one side. “You’re never bloody sorry but I should have known that going in, I suppose.”

He quirked a heavy brow at her. She was talking in code. Some sort of angry woman code. He almost wished he’d bothered to make female friends so he could ask them to cipher. He couldn’t very well ask Sam.

Clara sighed. “Look, we’re both adults, here. We can move past… this. I don’t intend to quit. I worked too bloody hard to get here and I wouldn’t give that up over you being the… being exactly as you always are. Unless you intend to let me go?”

_Never. Not in a million fucking years. Even knowing he was barely a joke to her._

He shook his head.

“Good.” She nodded approvingly. “So, we can just get back to business as usual. I do respect you, despite all odds and I know how stress affects you." She leaned forward, her eyes going hard and colder than he'd ever seen them. "But please keep in mind that if you ever talk to me again like you did last night, I will detach something from you. Something you'll miss. Whatever it is you're dealing with, don’t ever make it personal like that, again. You keep it far away from me, got it?"

Malcolm was stunned into momentary acquiescence. He nodded dumbly at her. 

"Alright then. Let's get some work done." Clara lightened immediately, turning her attention back to her screen.

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his seat. _How fucking dare she._ He was her fucking boss, and all! He didn't take fucking orders. He fucking gave them.

And yet he couldn't find the words to object. Possibly because that schoolmarm tone was back. He hated that tone. Mostly because it seemed to have cast some strange spell on parts of his anatomy. More than one fantasy of his may have featured that particular tone. He shifted again, hiding his lap beneath the table. Knowing just how good she actually felt only added to the agony.

They worked for a while longer, Malcolm brooding on the unsettling way Clara seemed to have taken charge of the situation and he had just… let her. One of Tom’s assistants rang for an update and he quickly switched back into work mode, muttering some choice indecencies into the speaker until the younger man was suitably cowed.

After the call ended, Clara broke the silence again. “You don’t have to be so… quiet. It’s not like I haven’t heard you bollock someone before. It’s… rather unnerving when you whisper it like that, actually.”

“So, what? You want me fucking yelling and screaming? Is that your fucking fetish or something?” he asked, incredulously.

She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that how you charm all the ladies into your bed?”

“Nah, I find saying things like ‘I’ve got the PM on speed dial’ does the trick just fine,” he deadpanned.

The ghost of a smile hovered around her lips and lit her dark eyes. It felt so good to see her look at him like that, again, that he almost forgot to hold onto his burning indignation.

Almost.

***

Three weeks after their return from DC and things were starting to feel nearly back to rights. The first week back had been awkward as arse, despite the semi-truce Clara had declared in the hotel..

She hadn’t fully forgiven him for acting an absolute pratt. He still hadn’t gotten over the idea that she was ashamed of having slept with him. Neither of them was willing to actually discuss the proverbial elephant that loomed so large between them. Instead, they followed Clara’s suggestion of “moving past” it. Clara spent significantly less time leaning against his desk, making idle conversation. Malcolm stopped texting or calling her after work hours unless it was urgent. Once or twice, in the wee hours, he caught himself with his thumb hovering over the send button, but he always deleted it, instead.

Because why should he be the one to extend a fucking olive branch, anyway? If Clara wanted to be friendly again, she’d fucking well say so. She’d never kept her mouth shut before.

And anyway, it wasn’t as though he had any need for the fucking distraction. The work was getting done. Ministers were being made to look far less like the moronic fucking tossers they actually were and more like the consummate politicians they thought themselves to be. And they could fuck right off if they thought his rants were just a little more acid-laced than usual.  If the cunts couldn’t handle a bollocking they had no fucking business in politics. 

After a month, he barely thought about Clara at all. Or her perfect fucking tits. Or the way her skin smelled when he’d buried his face in her neck. Or that face she made when she was coming that could get him hard in a second. Or would have, if he thought about it at all.

Which he absolutely did not.

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the space between his brows. And now his cock was standing fully to attention on a Wednesday afternoon. Like a stalwart fucking soldier. He briefly contemplated running to the loo for a midday wank before dismissing the idea as hopelessly fucking pathetic.

The phone line buzzed. “Malcolm, Dan Miller here to see you.”

He groaned aloud. He had forgotten Dan “Upper Class Twit of the Year” Miller had booked an appointment. Fuck him, but this was  _not_  a time he wanted to deal with that arrogant sod. Unfortunately, there was an interview and he needed Dan to toe the Party line. On the upshot, his erection had all but deflated at the very thought. He buzzed back that Clara could send the wanker in.

Dispensing with formalities, he addressed the News Night spot, immediately. All smiles and meaningless pleasantries, Dan inclined his head and agreed. They hacked out an appropriately vague set of sound bites that could be inserted into almost any topic. After some less than subtle needling about Tom’s good opinion, Malcolm assured the prick that he was not out of favor.

Dan rose to leave about an hour after he had arrived, extending a hand for Malcolm to shake. Malcolm looked at the proffered limb with indifference bordering on disgust until Dan removed it and cleared his throat.

“Well, alright then. I suppose our business is concluded.” He turned toward the door, then stopped and turned back. “Out of curiosity, Tucker, is your PA… ehm… involved with anyone?”

Malcolm’s throat tightened to the point where he thought he might choke. He kept his expression bland as milk. “What the fuck kind of business of yours is that?”

Dan shrugged. “Now, now. I assure you, my intentions are quite pure. I’ve an eye to the future, that’s all. Now Clara… She’s a pretty girl but not overly decorative. Bright, well-mannered…. Well suited for a Minister’s wife,” the man observed, glibly.

Malcolm felt his ears go hot, his vision suddenly spotty and black around the edges. He rose rigidly from his desk and stalked over to Dan, invading his personal space until the man was forced to step back. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, he continued to advance until Dan was backed into the wall.

Keeping his voice low, so the woman in question would not overhear, Malcolm grit out. “Alright, now listen to me, you cock-faced fucking  _cunt_. If you so much as breathe near her, I will cut your fucking head off with a dull fucking kitchen knife. I will cook it like a fucking Christmas bird, using your fucking balls as giblets for fucking gravy and serve it up to your whole fucking family. Do you understand me, Dan Miller?” Malcolm leaned in a little closer, enjoying the way Dan’s nostrils flared as he tried to lean away into a space that wasn’t there. He continued, “Clara Oswald is not on the fucking ‘Minister's wife’ market. She's not on  _any_  fucking market and you're to leave her the fuck alone unless she specifically tells you otherwise. Actually, you know what? Fucking forget that last part. If she comes to your door, gagging for it, you send her straight to the loony fucking bin because that's where any self-respecting woman would need to be to come to  _you_.” He finished by jabbing one finger to Dan’s chest.

Dan huffed. “As opposed to you?”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “And what's that supposed to mean? Eh, cunt?”

Dan slid to the side with a polite cough and adjusted his tie. “Nothing.  Nothing at all, Tucker. It's just... Well, it is funny how your PAs always seem to be young, attractive women...”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck off with your veiled fucking accusations. You've got something to say, fucking shite it out that arsehole you call a mouth.” He rounded on the younger man. “But I hope you know exactly what you're doing if you want to start a fucking war with me – the man who knows where all the pooftah skeletons in your fucking closet are fucking disco dancing. Do you want that, Dan mincing mingebag Miller?”

The skin around Dan’s mouth went white as he clamped it shut. He shook his head.

Malcolm cupped a hand behind his ear. “Hmm? I'm afraid I didn't fucking hear you.”

Dan cleared his throat, again, shoving both hands in his pockets like a repentant schoolboy. “No. I don't want to start a war with you, Malcolm. I was... merely making a casual observation. Nothing more. Certainly nothing I'd repeat outside of this office.”

Temporarily mollified, Malcolm took a step back, his lips pursing. “There's a bright fucking lad. You'll go far. Let's start with far the fuck away from here, eh?"

"Yes, Malcolm. Good day."

Malcolm waved a hand dismissively as Dan scurried to the door. After the other man had left, he sagged against his desk. His hands were starting to feel shaky as the adrenaline receded. He scrubbed at his face with one of them, letting out a low groan.

This wasn’t just going to go away, was it?

How the fuck had he let this little nothing of a woman so far under his fucking skin? More importantly, how would he ever get her out?

He tilted his head back, taking a deep breath.

_Just get back to work, Tucker._


	10. Gary

His name was Gary and he had a really nice smile. He talked with his hands but in a way that was more charming than distracting. He had excellent taste in wine and filled out a suit exceedingly well. What was more, he seemed to find her utterly enthralling. His eyes had only dipped to her décolletage twice all evening (and she’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t at least once – she looked smashing in this dress).

Clara had met Gary over a month ago at a fundraiser but she’d been so busy running errands for Malcolm, they had spoken only a few times. A few weeks later, he had sent her an email, asking if he might take her to lunch, sometime. He apologized for emailing out of the blue but it had taken him some time to track her down. At the time, she was prepping Malcolm for the trip across the pond and filed the email away for later.

A date was really the last thing on her mind. Well, with anyone except the one person she really, really shouldn’t want to date.

After the DC debacle, she had remembered Gary’s email. It took her two full weeks to decide whether she was going to reply. He was handsome, from what she remembered. His grammar and punctuation were excellent – always a way to win points with her. Eventually, driven to stop dwelling on her mercurial boss, she told him she would meet for drinks. They exchanged a few more emails. Scheduling was difficult as he was out of the country until the end of the month.

But his emails were witty and pleasant. Drinks eventually turned into dinner.

And so, she found herself seated at a small table set with white linen and flickering candles in a dimly lit restaurant that smelled of garlic and parmesan. Gary flashed her another smile and she smiled back.

He was really a very nice chap.

He didn’t make her pulse race or heart skip a beat, but he was more than agreeable company and just as good looking as she remembered. She placed him around 36 or so making him a completely compatible age. A quick Google search told her he had never been married and didn’t have any pending arrest warrants. He worked odd hours and travelled a bit so he was not put off by her erratic schedule at all. Fundraising was actually what he did, professionally, and he was moderately successful, so far. So, he was ambitious and held the prospect of a decent future. They liked a lot of the same music and were completely agreed that the book was always better than the movie except in one or two cases.

She could see herself kissing him, at some point. Probably not tonight. Wouldn’t want to give him the wrong idea. But this had promise.

Yet, when her eyes swept to his wheat blonde hair, she kept picturing dark, salt and pepper curls in her mind’s eye. When he reached for her hand and held it in his much larger one, she thought of long pale fingers fitting between hers. When her phone buzzed in her purse, she nearly fell out of her chair in her haste to answer it.

But it was only her friend from university.

“Work keep you on a short leash?” Gary asked, understandingly.

“What? Oh… oh no. I mean, well, yes work keeps me plenty busy but this is just my friend Sophie mass-texting pictures of her son holding a puppy wearing a jumper.”

“The son or the puppy?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

Gary gestured to the phone. “Wearing the jumper. The son or the puppy? Either way, I’m sure it’s adorable.”

“Oh! Both, actually.” She held up the screen and Gary nodded approvingly. She smiled and flicked the app closed then tucked the mobile away. “So, you were talking about last summer in Prague?”

Gary launched back into the story he had been telling without missing a beat. Clara was only half listening; irate with herself for having reacted so eagerly when she thought the text might be from Malcolm. He hardly ever texted her these days. There were still plenty of late nights at the office, but they didn’t sit around laughing over mouthfuls of curry afterward, anymore. If it was after dark, Malcolm still called the car to take her home. But he no longer rode along with her just so they could finish debating over which Minister’s wife was likely the least sexually satisfied.

In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time they had talked about anything except work since leaving the hotel in DC. It hurt to feel so severed from him after they had begun to grow so close. She missed him. She missed the Malcolm who had been her roguish friend, stealing peanuts on the train and miming a wank-job behind Ollie’s giant head. Never mind the relentless force of attraction or the mind-blowing sex. That was all still too confusing, too raw and evocative to linger on for more than a minute.

Gary was laughing at something so she politely laughed along. His laugh was thready and nasal. It didn’t warm her from deep within.

But he did have a nice smile.

***

She’d been seeing Gary for five weeks and they hadn’t slept together yet. They had gotten very close, especially the night she agreed to come in for a night cap and they’d ended up dry humping on his sofa. But she just hadn’t felt right and begged off, complaining of an early morning. The next time he’d wanted to come up, she’d lied and claimed an on-coming cold. She was beginning to exhaust her very brief list of excuses. Short of telling him she was saving herself for marriage, she wasn’t certain how to continue putting off his advances.

Not that she didn’t enjoy kissing him. He was experienced and skilled, well-built and often smelled pleasantly of mint. She didn’t have to picture anyone else to enjoy their time together. Even if Malcolm had made the occasional guest appearance in her mind, unbidden. That was becoming less frequent, as their work relationship continued to be coolly professional. Still, she wasn't ready for another man in her bed, just yet.

He wasn’t pressuring her much, although there was the occasional flicker of irritation when she ended the evening on just a kiss. He wasn’t exactly her boyfriend, yet, but he’d made it clear that he’d like to be. She really wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Meanwhile, keeping her work life and personal life separate, while she decided what Gary actually meant, was another constant preoccupation. 

And it all came crashing down the day Malcolm saw her at her desk, reapplying her lipstick before leaving for the day.

“Gussying up for the hobos on the tube? It’s probably not necessary but I suppose it’s a nice touch.” He dropped a couple of files on her desk.

She eyed the folders suspiciously. “You said I didn’t have to stay late tonight.”

He shrugged. “You don’t _have_ to. I don’t _have_ to sign your cheque, either. But society comes to these little agreements or else we’d never fucking get anything done.”

“Malcolm…” She pursed her lips.

He frowned at her, taking in the upswept hair, the fresh lipstick, and the earbobs she’d only just added. “Where’s he taking you?”

Her mouth dropped open. “How did you…? No, nevermind. Berners.”

His eyes flicked away and then back to her face. “Nice place. He’ll deserve at least a blowjob for that one, eh?”

Clara squeezed her eyes shut. “Malcolm, don’t.”

“Just making conversation,” he added, his tone forcibly casual. “What’s his name?”

“Gary.” She sighed. He'd only ferret it out of her eventually, anyway. Might as well tell him, now. “Gary Singer.”

Malcolm looked thoughtful. “Looks like a rugby player? Works for that company with the logo like an upside down fanny?”

Clara bit back a laugh, amused despite herself. “I don’t think it’s supposed to look like that. Anyway, he works for himself, now. Professional fundraising.”

Malcolm snorted, stuffing both hands in his trouser pockets. “Fuckin moved back in with his mum, then, has he? Are you paying for dinner?”

Clara rolled her eyes. “He’s doing quite well, actually. And the notion that the man should always pay for dinner is incredibly archaic anyway,” she added archly.

Malcolm bristled noticeably before shrugging it off. “If you say so.”

Clara exhaled loudly and rose from her seat, heading toward the door. Malcolm got there first and plucked her coat from the rack. She opened her mouth to protest that he couldn’t keep her there by holding her coat hostage. But he simply held it open for her to put on. It was warm enough that she didn’t really need it, but it was drizzling outside. Nodding to show she appreciated the gesture, she slipped one arm and then the other into the light material. Malcolm settled it over her narrow shoulders, one hand lingering just a moment too long as he smoothed the fabric.

She turned to face him, her brow creased, lips trembling with the weight of so many things unsaid. She trained her gaze on the loose knot of his tie, not trusting herself to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy your night,” he said, his voice emotionless.

 _Is that all?_ She wanted to ask. _Is that all you’ve bloody got to say to me?_ She wanted to cry and rage and beat on his chest with both fists. She half wondered if it would make a hollow sound where his heart should be. _Why did you say those things to me in America? Why won’t you fucking talk to me, anymore? Why do you act jealous one minute and indifferent the next? What do you fucking want from me, Malcolm Tucker?_

Instead, she nodded politely and mumbled a second “thank you” before pushing past him and out into the night air. Gary wouldn’t be along with the car for a few minutes yet, but she could wait by the building. At least out there, she felt like she could still breathe properly.

***

Standing by the door, Malcolm clenched and unclenched his fists. He filled his lungs with air and released it to the count of ten. He did it again, this time to the count of twenty.

It didn’t fucking help.

The thought of another man in Clara’s life sat like acid in his gut. For almost a year now, he’d grown accustomed to her presence in his life. Even after their ill-fated night together, she was still a constant. He liked knowing he could open the inner door to his office and see her at her desk. But Clara was young and pretty and he couldn’t hide her away from the world, hoarding her attentions only for himself. As willing as he was to paint himself the villain of the piece – the impracticality of it was staggering. If she wouldn’t stay willingly, he couldn’t bring himself to keep her.

Chasing Dan Miller away had been partly out of respect for Clara. He never thought for a moment she would take an interest in the pompous cunt. But he may as well save her the effort of thwarting the stubborn advances. And alright, perhaps Miller had struck a chord at just the wrong time to receive the full brunt of his wrath.

Weeks had passed since then. He’d started to notice Clara leaving a little earlier than usual. Once or twice he’d seen her primping on her way out. He tried in vain to dismiss the niggling thought that there must be someone waiting for her on that other side of that door. When that didn’t work, he tried to remind himself that he had no right to care if there was. That only made the ache deeper.

It had been one thing to hold onto his vague suspicions with bitter contempt for his own weakness. It was a far more painful thing to have them confirmed.

Gary Singer.

Fucking cunt.

There was no fucking way the tosser deserved a moment in Clara’s company. He thought he remembered hearing the name bandied about at some point but he couldn’t quite recall why. He was tempted to phone up that PI he’d once hired to investigate Sam’s husband. Surely he must know someone in the fundraising racket. If this Gary cunt turned out to be a legitimate businessman, he might see to letting the man live. If there was any danger to Clara, no one would ever find the fucking body.

He shook his head, running both hands through his hair.

_No. No use even thinking like that._

It was none of his fucking business and Clara would be on his balls –  and not in the way he’d have preferred. This one would just have to play itself out for a bit.

So, what did he do now? Sit around with both thumbs up his fucking arse?

With a start, Malcolm realized that he had begun pacing. He trudged back to his desk and flung himself into his chair. His blackberry sat idle and he glared at it, willing it to ring. Give him something else to do, something else to fucking focus on. As though some benevolent God of political cock-ups heard him, it buzzed. Ollie was setting up a press conference for tomorrow and had managed to erase all of his notes, including the back-up hard drive.

Malcolm grinned wildly at the phone.

“Don’t you fucking move, Poxbridge. Don’t even breathe; your breed of arse-buggering fucking incompetence might be catching. I’d hate to have to call a fucking quarantine. Yes, I’m fucking serious. I’ll be right fucking there with my fucking gas mask on.”


	11. Conflict Resolution

Clara braced herself for Hurricane Malcolm when she returned to work the next morning. She assumed he would have something snide to say, perhaps even a scarlet A for her to wear. Instead, he mumbled some vague sort of greeting and held his empty coffee cup out to her. As she was making a new pot, it occurred to her that he looked as though he’d slept in the office again. He hadn’t done that in a while.

She sighed.

There didn’t seem to be any particular shit hitting any network or print fans that she knew of. Yet he remained entombed in his office all morning. When the phone rang, he had her take a message. A few times she heard him talking in a low voice on his mobile but she couldn’t make out the words. When she dropped in to refresh his coffee, he immediately stopped whatever he was doing and fiddled with his Blackberry until she left.

The third time this happened, she had had enough. She slammed the empty mug down on the desk. “What are you doing? Plotting a coupe?”

He looked at her irritably, his lips a pale, thin line. “I’m having an affair. With the PM’s wife. Now fuck off and let me get back to the hot phone sex.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “I’ve met the PM’s wife and I’d like to think you have better taste than that.”

“Look, do you know what happens when I tell people to fuck off and they don’t fuck off?”

Clara pursed her lips. “You sit there and yell more profanity at them?”

Malcolm inclined his head. “Well, sometimes I stand.” He sighed loudly, sagging into his chair. “I’m just catching up on some work I put off last night. Was over at DoSac half the night.”

“Ollie?” she asked.

“Ollie.” He gave a curt nod and grimaced.

“I knew you’d forgotten to go home, again.” Feeling a little more charitable, Clara edged around to his side of the desk. His chair was angled slightly toward her but he didn’t move a muscle, watching her warily as she approached. She reached out and smoothed the collar of his shirt, trying to ignore the draw of the warm flesh beneath. When his eyes widened almost imperceptibly, she realized that this was the first time she had touched him voluntarily in weeks. He was still watching her, the wariness fading into something altogether unreadable. With gentle, hesitant fingers, she adjusted the knot of his tie. She smiled fondly. “You look a fright.”

His lips parted slightly before he swallowed and looked away. “The better for scaring Ministers, my dear,” he muttered.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You know, the whole of Great Britain won’t collapse if you go home for a few hours and take a nap. Maybe a shower?” she prodded, running one hand lightly over his silvery-brown curls.

 “Is that a shower for two?” He cocked his head, grinning wolfishly.

Their eyes locked, his growing dark with undisguised lust, hers conflicted and perhaps just a little bit yearning. Her mind was flooded with Malcolm, naked and wet, pressing her against the wall of her shower, or kneeling in the spray to bury his face between her legs… Heat radiated from the pit of her belly, centering at the apex of her legs. She shifted her stance, feeling the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her most sensitive area.

_Stop it. Stop it. Stop it this instant, Clara Oswald!_

Clara straightened, backing away slightly. “Malcolm, you know I’m seeing someone, now.” Not that she could remember his name (or even his face) at the moment.

_It was a silly fling and it went very, very badly. We don’t want a repeat of that, do we? Not when things are finally starting to get back on track…Don’t do this…_

Malcolm’s throat worked and he looked away, face shuttering. “Get back to work, Clara. I can worry about my own fucking hygiene habits, yeah?”

“Right. Okay. Sorry.” She suddenly found that she couldn’t leave the room fast enough.

She ran to the Ladies and practically threw herself into a stall. Sitting on a toilet in her trousers was not ideal but it was one place she was nearly guaranteed a modicum of solitude. She buried her face in both hands.

This was a right proper mess, wasn’t it?

When she’d first acknowledged her attraction to her boss, she never really expected anything to come of it. Malcolm was not exactly relationship material. She wasn’t entirely sure she was either, though she’d made a go of it a few times, now.

A couple years ago, when Danny had come along, she had been so certain that he was the one. Clear as day, she had pictured a future together. A little house just outside the city, working together and taking vacations together. Danny wasn’t nearly as excited about traveling as she was, but he’d have gone with her – if only to keep her safe. Some deep hidden part of her had even wondered what their children might look like.

Clara bit back a sob. Not the train of thought she’d have seen herself hopping on, today.

With Danny gone, she had thrown herself headfirst into her new career. There wasn’t any reason to think about anything else. Knocking on the door of 30 years old, she had started over from scratch. Two years in and here she was crying in a bathroom stall.

There was progress for you.

Cursing quietly, she swiped at her eyes and blew her nose with some toilet paper. Gary had made another reference to calling her his girlfriend on their date last night. She ought to say yes. For once, it hadn’t been the ghost of Danny that staid her. It had been Malcolm Fucking Tucker. The thought of having a boyfriend again was nearly neutral in her mind, perhaps even this side of boring. But she could really only string Gary along for so long (sex or no sex) before he wanted a solid answer. And all she’d been able to think about was how Malcolm might react if he knew she’d gotten serious with another bloke.

_How pathetic was that?_

Clara Oswald was an independent woman! She lived her life on her own bloody terms! People at the Coal Hill School had said she was barmy for going off half-cocked to live her new dream. She’d shown them with the dubiously prestigious honor of securing a job at number 10. Clara was driven, determined, and clever as hell. Why oh for fuck’s sake why did it matter what one disgruntled, moody Scotsman thought of her personal life?

Oh fine, she knew very well why. But she wasn’t even about to think it. Not after that way he’d treated her. Alright so the sex had been some of the best of her life. He’d been showing off, of course. There was no way it could be that consistently good.

_Could it?_

Well, she’d never have the opportunity to find out, at this rate. She wasn’t about to just forgive him and fall back into bed. Not without a very good explanation. Then again, to obtain that explanation, they’d have to actually _talk_ about what had happened. Which she also wasn’t about to do.

With a low sound of disgust, she pushed out of the stall and (out of habit) washed her hands.

_Get back to work, Clara._

***

Two weeks later, all Hell broke loose. For once, it wasn’t in the Office of Communications. It was directly centered around a London organization, the one with the logo that, as Malcolm so eloquently put it, looked a bit like an upside down fanny. The non-profit company was under serious investigation due to something that the press had discovered about its former Treasurer – one Gary Singer.

Singer, himself, was likely to be arrested as more and more allegations began to pour in about embezzlement, fraud, and creative bookkeeping that had taken place during his tenure. Gary’s business was effectively shut down overnight as the revenue office seized as any assets that were not tied down.

Obscenely early Saturday morning, Clara slammed her fist into Malcolm’s front door for the third time. “I know you’re in there. You’re not at work and you haven’t got that many other places to hide. So, let me in, you bloody coward!”

Slowly, as though it dreaded the moment of interaction, the door began to open. Clara glared up at Malcolm, hands on her hips. He said nothing, clutching a coffee mug in both hands like a lifeline. She made an exasperated sound and pushed past him. She had dropped a few files at his place but she’d never been inside his house. At some other time, she might have stopped to appreciate the comfortable but stylish décor. As it was, she was far too furious to be distracted by trivialities.

“What the hell did you do?” she asked, immediately.

Malcolm shrugged. “Got up. Took a shit. Made coffee. Opened the fucking door.”

Clara made an exasperated sound. “You know what I mean, Tucker.”

He looked shaken at her use of his surname. Of everyone at Downing, Clara was the only one who consistently called him by his first name. He had to know she meant business if she was placing such a formality between them.

He sniffed and stepped away from her, a tension spreading across his shoulders. “Look if we’re going through a litany of my greater sins, I’ll need another coffee.”

“You had him investigated,” Clara accused, boldly.

Malcolm turned back sharply, “Scotland Yard is having him investigated. Perhaps you got confused on account of the Scottish…” he gesticulated vaguely with one hand, “thing.”

“So, you do know what I’m talking about,” Clara pursued.

“Well, I can take a fucking guess. You clearly aren’t here for a social call." He tipped back the mug, draining its contents. "You’ve never felt a need to question me like this before.”

Clara’s hands flew into the air. “Because I always trusted you to do the right thing! This… this was just petty and you know it.” That schoolmarm tone had returned and even she winced a little at that. But it was no more than he deserved.

“And I don’t suppose you even considered that what’s happened was the so-called _right_ fucking thing, eh?” Malcolm shot back, setting his cup on a nearby counter and scowling down at it.  

Clara rolled her eyes. “And you expect me to believe that it was all starry eyed good intentions that spurred you on?”

“I’ll neither confirm nor deny,” he muttered, still averting his gaze.

 “Then why leak it to the media, huh? Turning him in is all well and good. If it’s true, he deserved that much, I’ll grant you. But the bloody front page? Did you even think for a second that I might get caught up in the storm?”

Malcolm finally looked up at that, his eyes wide. “Do you think I’d put you in that position?”

“Maybe not intentionally, but it almost happened anyway. He was standing outside my bloody flat when they arrested him!”

Malcolm shook his head, cursing under his breath. “I didn’t leak it, Clara.”

“Like Hell.” She crossed her arms over her chest, blood still pumping with pure rage-induced adrenaline.

He pursed his lips. “Believe whatever the fuck you like. You will anyway.”

Clara stormed up to him, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. _Who the actual fuck did he think he was_? “Then give me one good reason to believe you, instead!”

“Because I… Because you’re…. Fucking hell, Clara! It’s….” He sputtered uselessly, gesticulating wildly with both hands.

At another time, Clara might have taken pride in rendering the great Malcom Tucker utterly speechless for the second time in her life. Right now, she mostly wanted to throttle the answer out of him with her bare hands. “That’s what I fucking thought.” She was about to turn away when she felt his large hands wrapping around her shoulders.

He pulled her back to face him. She let out an undignified squeak of protest but all other words fell away as his hands framed her face.

And then he was kissing her.

Despite the vigor of their row, his lips were soft and pliant against hers. She would have expected something hard and demanding, possessively staking his claim (and in her darkest heart of hearts she wasn’t completely against the idea). Instead, he lavished her with gentle warmth and attention.  As Malcolm’s earnest mouth coaxed hers into compliance, she fought the urge to melt against him. It was just another manipulation and she knew it. It had to be. After the disaster that had been their time in DC, there was no way he didn’t know how she felt about him. _How dare he use it as the coward’s way to avoid a fight!_ Her temper flared. _How fucking dare he_! Summoning all her inner strength, she pushed him away.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” She tried to bring her breathing back under control.

His heavy brows knit over darkened eyes, pupils wide enough to nearly blot out the blue, spots of colour high on his cheeks. His lips pressed together in a thin line, but not before Clara saw the bottom one tremble slightly. He said nothing.

“I ought to slap you.” She added, knowing that that was still the last thing on her mind.

His nostrils flared. “You’d be entitled.” He responded flatly, his voice rough and low. His hands hung limply at his sides, shoulders slumping. He looked so utterly defeated, Clara had to scramble to recover her righteous anger. It was barely left in shards, shattered the instant he had touched her.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling loudly. “Don’t. Please don’t.” She reopened her eyes and Malcolm had moved away, leaning against the nearest wall.

“Don’t what? Clara… I don’t fucking know what you fucking want from me.” His brogue was so thick, she only completely understood every other word. He ran a hand through his greying curls.

Clara followed it with her eyes, wanting to do the same. How many times had she thought about  grabbing onto those curls and pressing her mouth to his? Of burying her hands in them to anchor him between her thighs? She shifted her weight, oddly self-conscious of the wetness that had gathered during their earlier encounter. _Get ahold of yourself, Clara…_

“Malcolm…” She swayed back toward him, the air between them thick with uncertainty, desire, and all those little unspoken things that had brought them to this moment.

A realization struck her. What if he hadn’t kissed her as a ploy to distract her from her argument? What if that kiss had been his rejoinder? There had been something of an unspoken plea there. Something that felt real and honest. No one kissed like that without meaning it. Could the hard-hearted, tough-as-nails Tucker really have such trouble simply telling her that he was sorry? Was the word _sorry_ even in his vocabulary?

She looked at him searchingly. “This was never really about Gary, was it?”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re still looking to defend that cunt …. The money he stole was meant for the Children’s Cancer Foundation. Did you know that? Hundreds of thousands of fucking pounds….” His face hardened. “It’s indefensible, Clara. And no, you shouldn’t have gotten caught in the crossfire. That was never meant to happen. But he stole from the hands of needy fucking kids so he could treat you to mediocre fucking restaurants.” He looked away. "You can do fucking better."

_Was that an offer, Mr. Tucker? Care to show me what I've been missing?_ Clara released a shaky breath, not sure she was ready to address all that, just yet. What she needed was some breakfast and to stop bloody fighting with this man for a while. At least long enough to sort some things out. She made a quick decision.

“I’m not angry that he got caught. The bloody bastard deserves every bit of what’s coming to him. I just wish you had told me first before bringing down the media circus. That’s all.”

 “Clara, I never – “ 

“Stop.” She placed a hand on his chest, palm flat against his sternum. “I don’t need to know how you did it. You don’t even have to admit that you did. I know it was you and you know that I know. Can we just leave it at that?”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted but he nodded. After a brief but intense study of the place her hand rested on his chest (his heart seeming impossibly fast beneath her fingertips), he moved away.  “Well, if you’re finished making a fuss, I suppose you’ll be off, then.” He said stiffly.

“So soon?”

He stopped short. “Did you expect me to invite you to breakfast again? We saw how well that worked out, last time.”

Clara shrugged. “Actually… I think it’s my turn to treat you to breakfast. Or I could make something for us, if you have anything. Less chance of running into reporters, if we stay in. Have you got any food, here?”

She thought she saw the exact moment Malcolm stopped his jaw from dropping to the floor. He recovered quickly, of course. 

“I’m a bachelor, I’m not fucking incompetent. I’ve got eggs. And milk, if it hasn’t gone off.” He nodded toward the kitchen, his eyes never leaving her face.

“A regular fine dining establishment.” The corners of her mouth twitched. “May I stay, then? Make us some eggs?”

 “Clara.” His voice was hard but his eyes were pleading. _Clara, please tell me what this means. Tell me I’m not reading it all wrong._

 She closed the short distance between them and slid both hands up to the collar of his robe. Grasping it firmly in both hands, she raised herself on tiptoe and touched her mouth to his. At first he seemed too stunned to move but within seconds he had wrapped both arms around her. They kissed deeply for several minutes before Clara withdrew. She grinned at the dazed look on his face and reached up to tap his nose with a fingertip.

“C’mon. Show me your kitchen.”


	12. Breakfast of Champions

Clara was in his kitchen. Making him fucking breakfast.

She had come over to bollock him but ended up kissing him and then cooking eggs.

And he really wasn’t entirely sure how that last part had happened. Either of them, really. He hadn’t meant to kiss her in the first place, but he didn’t know what else to say. Tucker the Magnificent Manipulator had found himself backed into a corner by a pair of big brown eyes.

He hadn’t leaked the story, but she would never believe him. He had built his own devious reputation and for good fucking reason. Because he was that fucking good at what he did. The absolute best. So good that Clara, who knew him better than most, was convinced he had done what he always seemed to do and used the media for his own purposes.

Truth was, he hadn’t even known about the full scandal until it hit the papers. The phone calls he placed had begun the investigation, but that was the extent of his involvement. Gary Singer was bad news, but Clara would never have listened to him if he told her outright. But he had been trying to act quietly, for Clara’s sake. Keeping Clara’s name out of the papers was still a factor. Because she was his PA, if nothing else. And she didn’t believe for a second that he had even considered that before going after Singer.

He weighed his options. On the one hand, it rankled him that she was unmovable on the subject of his interference. The one time he had absolutely acted in everyone’s best interest.

Yet, here she was, acting as though all was forgiven, humming away in front of his stove.

And who was he to deny a good thing? They happened so fucking rarely. After DC, he hadn’t allowed himself the possibility of a second chance. It was too much to think that Clara might be willing to start over, pretend he hadn’t acted a fucking fool over her (very real and understandable) concerns. At his age, with all that past weighing down his soul, who was he to believe in second chances?

Clara set the plate in front of him with a flourish, her free hand running briefly through his hair. A frisson of pleasure ran down his spine as she tugged lightly at the ends before walking away to dish up her own portion.  Two eggs each, they had, scrambled with salt and pepper. Not exactly a meal fit for a king, but better than he managed for himself most mornings. She sat beside him at the breakfast bar, tucking into her own plate almost immediately. He picked at his, disturbed by the pleasant domesticity of the moment. 

Clara looked up from her plate. “I’m not gonna poison you. I mean, you’re a bastard, yeah, but you’re not as bad as all that.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “No, but it occurs to me that perhaps I ought to have hidden the kitchen knives.”

She giggled, obviously remembering her threat from several weeks back. “From what I recall, threatening your life seems to be a bit of a turn-on for you.”

He snorted. “Only when you do it, love. It’s fucking adorable, really. And I never use that fucking word.”

Clara made a sound of indignation.

Malcolm laughed, knot in his stomach loosening just a little. “Sorry, if I don’t feel threatened by those tiny fucking hands.” He took a bite of egg. It was dry and over salted. He ate it anyway.

“Tiny but very capable hands.” She placed one of said hands on his upper thigh. “Or don’t you remember?”

What he remembered most was her mouth and the look in her eyes as she slid it up and down his shaft. It had taken all of his will power not to come down her fucking throat with her looking up at him like that. And this conversation was taking them back to hazardous territory. It was all very well to share a few idle kisses, have breakfast like old friends. But the path her hand was currently taking was far more than friendly.

He reached down and halted her before she reached his growing erection. “I’m not a fucking toy, Clara.”

She looked at him curiously. “I never thought you were… Am I… am I just reading this all wrong, then? I thought you wanted me…”

_Only every fucking moment of every fucking day._

“That’s not really the fucking point, is it?”

“That’s exactly the fucking point,” she retorted, temper rising.

He dropped his face into both hands with a sigh. Was it too much to ask for five tenuous fucking minutes of peace before they would just set each other off, again?

“Look, perhaps its best you go before the rest of the neighborhood wakes up. I know the last thing you want is for anyone to know what you’ve been up to. With me.” It was a half-hearted jab, the self-pity sapping his sarcasm. He hated himself all the more for the obvious, raw vulnerability in the admission.

Clara’s brow creased. “Wait… is that what you think? That I’m… what? That I’m ashamed of sleeping with you?”

He shrugged, looking away “I can’t really hold it against you, love. If I were a pretty young thing, I wouldn’t want to be seen with me, either.”

“Oh my God. You are actually a complete idiot.”

He looked up, confusion and something that felt precariously like hope bubbling up within.

“Malcolm,” she began hesitantly, “I’ve just been trying to avoid a scandal. You know exactly how it would look – for both of us – if it got out that we were sleeping together. I mean, how would you spin it, if you weren’t directly involved?”

He looked away guiltily. He knew exactly what tune to play on that age old cliché.

Clara continued, illustrating her points with both hands. “I figure I’m either the clueless ingénue or the social climber trading sex for status. That makes you either a predator or a sap. And I happen to know that you aren’t either. Neither am I, for what it’s worth.”

“Christ… I _am_ a fucking idiot,” he muttered.

“Said that already,” she pointed out, dryly.

“Yes, thank you. You’re very helpful.”

Clara gave him a crooked grin. “That’s why you keep me around isn’t it?”

Normally he’d have taken the bait and they might have fallen into a pattern of banter, but this was far too important to let it drop. No matter how fucking uncomfortable it made him to ask. He shifted in his seat, toying with his fork. “So you weren’t just… In DC, you weren’t just….?”

“Gagging for a shag?” she supplied, a touch too brightly.

Malcolm looked at her, raising both eyebrows.  

She gave a half shrug. “I was, actually.” Her hand, still under his where he had stopped its ascent on his thigh, turned upward. She entwined their fingers. “But it was with you, specifically, if that helps you put the pieces together. I thought it was the perfect opportunity because for once there was no one watching. I didn’t think we’d ever get away with it back here in London.”

 “Well, of course we can.” Malcolm felt the words tumble out before he could reel them in. “You got here this morning without a fucking reporter in sight, right? And there aren’t cameras in every part of number 10. I know where the broken ones are, in fact. We just couldn’t really… I couldn’t take you out, proper. It would have to be very… discreet.”

Clara quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve given this some thought, have you?”

Malcolm froze, afraid he’d said too much. “Well, it’s not my first time at the rodeo, is it?”

“Oh.” Clara looked disappointed and he wasn’t sure if he’d made things better or worse.

Probably worse.

He amended quickly, “High profile is my line of work, sweetheart. Secrets almost always get out and always when it’s least fucking convenient. I’ve learned how to work around the system – as it were.”

Clara looked thoughtful. “Yeah. S’pose that makes sense.” Her eyes caught his, searching. “Are you still kicking me out, then?”

_Never._

“Not if you don’t want to leave.” He cleared his throat and took a long drink of his coffee. “I actually didn’t have anything planned for today. Bit of housecleaning, maybe laundry. You can help if you like. Bet you’d look brilliant in a fucking French maid costume.” He grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Clara rolled her eyes but smiled. “Breaking out the costumes and roleplay already?” She slid off of her stool and pulled him up with her by their joined hands. “I thought we could start off just a little less complicated…” She glanced toward the stairs that led up to his bedroom. “I’ve seen the kitchen and your lovely parlour. Care to show me the rest of the place?”

His heart beat heavily against his ribcage. “You’re certain it’s…. what you want?”

She looked surprised to hear him so uncertain. “As long as you promise not to act like a twat again afterward, yeah.”

“I make no promises on my twattery. But I won’t ever treat you that way, again.” He shook his head, the words of an apology still stuck in his throat. He was a stubborn cunt, and all.

Luckily Clara knew him well enough to read between the lines. Clever girl that she was. She squeezed his hand and led him to the stairs. “Good. Because second chances are rare enough and I don’t give third ones.” Hard words but she softened the blow with a fond, teasing smile.

He nodded in either approval or understanding. Possibly both. Together, they mounted the stairs.

***

Malcolm was still in his pajamas and some part of Clara found that imminently endearing.

He led her down a hallway and opened a half-closed door. His bed was unmade but the sheets looked clean. There were three picture frames on a wooden dresser and a small table and chair shoved into a corner. A full length mirror hung on one wall but there were no other decorations that she could see. Aside from the rumpled bed, the room looked utterly unused.

As he walked in after her, Malcolm looked around as though he had never seen his own furniture before. His gaze turned to her. “I wasn’t expecting company. Obviously.”

Her mouth quirked. She rather liked him like this, off kilter and oddly contrite. It wouldn’t last, of course. Tucker would be Tucker again in no time. But for now, he felt just a little bit less like a megalomaniacal puppetmaster and a little more like the first boy she’d ever brought home when her parents were out of town. All shy glances and endearingly awkward angles.

Only this time, Clara was no blushing virgin. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it.

Without warning, she grabbed the lapels of his pajama top and pulled him down for a kiss. He started slightly before melting into her, his arms wrapping around her body.

When she traced the seam of his lips with her tongue, he parted them instantly. She tasted him with long strokes, her fingers tugging at his curls. He made a greedy sound at the back of his throat that she could swear she felt directly between her legs. She leaned further into him. She wanted to rub herself against him like a cat, but their height difference made it difficult to meet body to body. As if sensing her frustration, he sat down on the bed, his hands sliding down to her outer thighs. She straddled his lap. He held her firmly in place with one hand on her lower back and one grasping her arse, thrusting his growing hardness shallowly against her aching core.

She pushed a hand between them and went to work on his buttons. He removed his hands from her long enough to allow her to push the shirt off of his shoulders. Next came her t-shirt and then her bra, which he flung unceremoniously away. His mouth descended to her neck and her breasts. She had to arch back to accommodate his exploration, but it was well worth the effort.

He suckled her nipples, grazing them lightly with his teeth and she encouraged him with breathy little sighs. Her hands buried themselves in his soft hair. She was regretting having worn jeans as she could not feel him grinding against her nearly as much as she would like. With a whispered word, she rose from his lap to shuck her jeans and knickers. He took the opportunity to rid himself of his pajama bottoms and take a condom out of his nightstand.

She climbed back into his arms, their lips meeting immediately, noses almost clashing in their eagerness. They laughed and adjusted the angle so they could keep kissing. Clara inched forward, shunting her hips so that her dripping sex would meet his hard flesh. He groaned at the contact and she happily swallowed the sound.

His hand snaked between them to tease her nether lips. He dipped down and gathered fluid, bringing it to her clit and applying pressure just where she needed it most. It was her turn to groan and she felt him smile against her mouth.

They pulled apart, breathless and flushed.

“Clara…” he hissed. “Please?”

She nodded, reaching between them and grasping his cock, slick with her juices. As she stroked him slowly, he opened the condom. He rolled it in place and she shifted up onto her knees to align him with her entrance. Catching his eye and holding it, she slid down oh so fucking slowly.

And _God yes_ , this was exactly what she had been missing….


	13. Lazy Day

They were lying in a tangled, sweaty heap on Malcolm’s bed, breathing hard. As usual, his mind was racing. For once, it wasn’t because he was trying to pull some tosser’s arse out of a fucking fire. Clara, as it turned out, was a cuddler. Malcolm was not. Well, not in recent years. His ex-wife might have told a different story – if she could be persuaded to do anything but curse his name.

When they finished and rolled to the center of the bed, Malcolm had half expected to Clara to take off, or vanish (as she did in certain sticky dreams he’d been having a lot of). The feel of her, solid and overheated, pressed into his side, was… unexpectedly pleasant. She smelled of sex and sweat and something else that was just uniquely her. He fought the urge to bury his nose in her hair like a besotted git. Aye, he was jelly-legged and halfway to brain-dead after coming so hard, but he wasn’t fucking stupid.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t a romance. He was still her employer and almost twice her age, at that. She’d get bored before long and move on, so there was no point in getting too attached.

But cuddling… cuddling was not half bad, he supposed. Cuddling he could do.

They drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, waking long enough to readjust limbs that were starting to get pins and needles. He discovered that Clara liked to plant lazy kisses on whichever parts of skin were nearest. A wicked part of his mind began to wonder how he might arrange her a little lower on his body. As though she could read his thoughts, Clara shifted so that her head was on his stomach.

He’d been at half-mast at least the last half hour, but paid it no heed. Clara, on the other hand, had only just noticed. He could feel her blinking, her eyelashes tickling the skin just above his bellybutton.

“Eager, are we?” Clara teased.

“Always,” Malcolm conceded. No point in denying it. He’d have her ten times a day, if she’d let him. He’d bend her over every desk at Downing Street – and all the Ministries, besides. He’d bury his head between her legs on the PM’s fucking dinner table. He knew she’d be infinitely more palatable than anything Tom's wife could cook up.

Clara gripped him in one hand and he felt himself growing with her competent strokes. She mouthed at the skin of his lower belly and the muscles there jumped. He had actually made an effort to stay in shape over the years, even if it wasn’t entirely consistent. He knew he was far too skinny, a byproduct of so many late nights and missed meals. Clara didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She lingered there, nuzzling him until his cock was straining with anticipation. She turned to plant a wet, open-mouthed kiss on the tip and Malcolm rumbled his appreciation.

Clara rearranged herself between his splayed legs so she could look up at him. She ran her tongue up the length of him and his erection bobbed happily toward her.

“Is this what you want, Malcolm?”

He nodded, afraid to say a word and ruin the moment.

She pulled back the foreskin and swirled her tongue around the tip. “Tell me.”

“What?”

She looked up again, dark eyes glinting. “Tell me what you want.” Her hand moved in a semi-circle and down the shaft.

He groaned. “That. Keep… just keep fucking touching me.”

“Hmm, like this?” She withdrew both hand and mouth, tracing his length with a fingertip.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You know exactly what I fucking mean.”

Clara gave a mischievous grin. “But I want to hear you say it…”

“You want to hear me beg for it,” he asserted, assessing the situation. If she pressed, he’d probably give in – he wanted her that badly. But it _would_ set a bad precedent.

“Maybe.” She gave him a slightly firmer stroke and his hips shunted involuntarily toward her.

_Who was he kidding? She’d been in charge from the very first…_

“Or maybe I just like the accent,” she added, almost as an afterthought but no less sincere for it.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Is that what ye want, lass?” he affected his thickest brogue. “Want me to tell ye to keep strokin’ my cock? That I want to feel your fuckin’ mouth round it, that I want to fill your cunt ‘til you fuckin’ scream for me?”

Clara’s mouth had fallen open, her pupils blown wide. He made mental note of that little trick.

“Fuck,” she muttered, before turning her attentions back to his cock. She worked him with an intensity bordering on painful and he was soon gasping her name. Just as he was on the verge, she pulled back.

“Clara! What the….?”

“Well, I seem to remember talk of fucking me til I scream, yeah?” She raised both brows and climbed up him to straddle his thighs.

“Fuck yes,” he growled, grabbing hold of her hips. He flipped them over, bringing his greedy mouth to one breast and then the other. He nipped at her with his teeth and her hips bucked. He made another mental note. Trailing kisses and bites down her ribs and belly, he reached the apex of her legs. She was soaked. For him. Sucking his cock had done that to her. He was almost overwhelmed by the sheer eroticism of that knowledge. He lavished her cunt with lips and tongue, seeking out every whimper and moan, feeling her toes curl against his back.

He briefly debated not letting her come, but decided he might not last long enough to get her there once he was inside her. It didn’t take much to push her over the edge. She grasped at his hair and cursed as her wetness covered his face. He lapped her up eagerly before moving back up to cover her body with his own. She kissed him like she was drowning and his lungs held her only oxygen. The tip of his cock was prodding at her entrance and it took everything he had to stop himself from plunging in.

“Condom,” he gasped, pulling away reluctantly. Fishing in the top drawer of his nightstand, he found the pack and reached in. Touching only cardboard.

_Fuck._

“Fuck,” he repeated aloud.

“That is the idea, yeah,” Clara rejoined, breathily. Her teeth sank into his shoulder and he lost focus for a moment. 

“No, I mean… Fucking hell, Clara, stop that… We can’t… I’m out of protection,” he admitted unhappily.

Clara stopped her ministrations to his neck, her head falling back on the pillow. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. His cock throbbed, balls almost painfully heavy now. And he was still so close to the one place in the world he most wanted to be. He could feel the heat of her sex on his hard flesh. God, it was fucking torture. He had to move off of her or else…

Her legs wrapped around his hips, keeping him in place. “Do we… I mean do you need it? I am on the Pill. Been tested and all. If you’re clean, we could just….” She rolled her hips into his.

He gave a guttural moan that ended in a curse. “Don’t fucking say things like that unless you mean it, love.” His tenuous hold on what little self-control he had left was eroding quickly.

“Malcolm.” Clara caught his gaze and held it.

He was practically shaking with need. “Yes?”

She gave a small nod. “Yes.”

Needing no further encouragement, he tilted forward, sliding effortlessly into her wet heat. His mind went blank as she engulfed him. Everything was Clara. Her scent, salty-sweet and delicious. The crush of her small, pert breasts to his chest. The sigh of contentment she made when he filled her. She was liquid fucking fire and he was burning within her.

He tried to hold back, to focus on her pleasure first. But she was whimpering and digging her heels into his arse and telling his to go _faster, harder, deeper_. He pistoned his hips, driving harder and harder into her willing body. She moaned and dug her nails down his back. In the frenzied fog of desire he felt her inner muscles clenching around him as a scream ripped from her throat.

It sounded like his name.

He came with a strangled cry, spilling himself while buried deep.

***

Clara’s stomach made a rude noise. Malcolm, still half asleep after their latest exertions, pretended not to notice. But there it was again. It was half past one and neither had eaten since far too early that morning. The few remaining contents of Malcolm’s refrigerator were not even worth mentioning, so Clara suggested takeaway.

Malcolm heaved himself from the sweat-dampened sheets to retrieve a few menus from the kitchen. He couldn’t be certain but he thought he might have seen Clara ogling his backside as he strode out. He resolved to wear as little clothing as possible for the day. He hadn’t a clue what a woman nearly half his age could possibly find appealing about his lanky form, but he was fully invested in enjoying her appreciation.

Kelly had usually wanted the lights out. Whether that was due to her own insecurities or lack of desire for his bony ribs and knobby knees, he never knew. He supposed that was Simon Cunting Hewitt’s problem now. And wasn’t he well shot of that, eh?

Let the past stay in the fucking past.

Releasing darker ruminations into the ether, he stretched luxuriously. His back gave a satisfying crack. He didn’t even feel shagged out, just yet. If Clara was willing, he had at least a few more rounds in him, yet. Randy as a schoolboy, he was.

And why not?

Only in his wildest dreams had he allowed himself to picture a full day of Clara, naked in his bed. Even if she changed her mind tomorrow, quit politics completely, moved to fucking New Zealand, he couldn’t have been more over the moon in this very moment. With a life like he’d had, one learned to take their pleasures while they could. Tomorrow, Clara might disavow him, revile the love bites he’d (purposely) left on her hips. But his sheets would still smell of her until the next wash and that would enough to keep the fantasy alive, at least a little while.

Fancy that. Malcolm Tucker with a crush. He’d be disappointed in his own foolish optimism if he wasn’t so high on post-orgasmic bliss.  He was returning to their love nest with menus in one hand and his mobile in the other when he heard the vile tone and vibration of his blackberry emanating from the pocket of last night’s trousers.

“Fuck,” he muttered irritably.

“Shit,” Clara echoed in a similar tone.

They both stared at the vibrating trouser pocket. That phone ringing on a Saturday could only herald a swift termination of the day’s more pleasurable activities.

Clara looked at him, still naked in his rumpled sheets. _God, she was fucking delicious_. She inclined her head. “Go on. Might be important.”

For just a moment, his body rebelled. His feet carried him back over to the bed with the intention of climbing in and forgetting the world outside the sweet flesh awaiting him, there. But Work Malcolm caught up all too soon and flipped the switch to carry blood back above groin-level. With an exaggerated sigh, he handed off the take away menu to Clara and retrieved his blackberry.

It was the PM, of course.

And it was fucking important, of course.

After a perfunctory conversation, he killed the call, jabbing the red button with more force than was strictly necessary. He looked up to where Naked Clara was pretending to be interested in the daily lunch specials.

“You can stop fucking eavesdropping. I’m being called in. Hugh’s gone and made a very public statement against the current cabinet and – believe it or not – people are actually fucking listening to the barmy old cunt. He got his hands on some old files and he’s leaking like a full fucking nappy. I’m on damage control at number 10. Might have to swing by DoSac, too.” He went to his closet to find a clean suit. Three left. Perhaps he’d send Clara out with some dry-cleaning while she was here. Was that completely inappropriate, now that they were shagging? She was still in his employ, but asking her to run his errands after she’d just had his cock in her mouth seemed… ungentlemanly… He’d have one of the undersecretaries do it, for now. Until he knew where they both stood, at least.

He selected a steely grey suit and crisp white shirt.

Behind him, Clara had dragged herself from the bed, menus forgotten, and began to pull on her clothes.

He turned, hangers in hand, “Hey now, love, you don’t have to… I mean, you’re welcome to take your time. Spend the day here, order your food – you know my card numbers.”

She looked at him, her brow crinkling. “Are you just being generous or were you hoping I’d still be up for it when you got home, again?”

 His eyes flicked to the side and then back. “Do the two have to be mutually exclusive?”

Clara gave a short laugh. “That’s what I thought. Well, as much as I’d love a good lie-in, it sounds like you might need a hand in this. It will get done faster if we’re both in it together, yeah?”

He closed the space between them in a few strides. Wrapping one arm around her shoulders, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Remind me to send Sam a bouquet of roses for that recommendation.”

Clara smiled up at him. “You already did.” She pulled herself up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips gently to his.

Malcolm leaned in to deepen the kiss but Clara pulled away, backing just out of his reach. He made a sound of frustration but stopped himself from reaching for her.

“Crisis to manage, remember? Spin doctoring now, snogging later.” She zipped up her jeans with a cheeky grin. “I ought to head out now and take the Tube the rest of the way in, so we don’t arrive together.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive. If anyone asks, I fuckin’ picked you up.” He quickly pulled on his suit, aware of Clara’s appreciative gaze still taking him in. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it felt like there were fucking butterflies in his stomach. Probably just hunger. “We can stop for sandwiches on the way.”

“Good call.” Clara approached and tied his tie as he pulled a comb through his hair. She even knew which knot he preferred. Christ he wanted to take her back to bed, right fucking now.

_Patience_. It had never been one of his virtues but today seemed a good fucking day to practice.

“So… To the Batmobile?” She asked as he finished pulling on his jacket.

“Does that mean I get to see you in that cute little knickers and tights outfit?” He waggled both brows.

“Yeah… not gonna happen.”

He shrugged, crooking his arm for her to take. “Can’t blame a bloke for trying.”

Clara rolled her eyes but smiled. Her hand wrapped around his forearm and they were off to save the day.

 

*** 

End of PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so this was actually as far as I had originally plotted this story. I thought it would be a bit more wrapped up by now but... well, feels happened. So, I do intend to continue it and tie in the [Christmas story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2790824). However, I have about 6 other open Verses I'd like to close and at least one paper due every week for the next five weeks. So, it may take some time to get back to this one. I will post on [Tumblr ](http://thescholarlystrumpet.tumblr.com/) as soon as I've made some progress!


	14. Working Relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Malcolm has trouble keeping his hands to himself and Clara has questions about their new dynamic (next chapter - Christmas at Mum’s house!)

They had been sleeping together for 3 days and it was already creating a problem at work. The biggest part of that problem was that he wanted her now even more than he fucking had before. Which, frankly, shouldn’t have been possible. Rather than satiating him, their weekend dalliance had only fanned the flames.

Malcolm Tucker was not a man accustomed to being distracted.

It started out innocuously enough. After they had seen to that ridiculous Hugh crisis over the weekend, Malcolm had taken Clara home to get ready for Monday. She had, much to his surprise and delight, invited him in.

That had led to a very enjoyable night in which he discovered that Clara, when properly motivated, was even more orgasmic than he’d originally thought. And he fully intended to exploit that at _every_ fucking opportunity. On Sunday night, he’d given her three while inside of her. Which was not a personal record, but damned near close.

Monday they agreed to take a break from one another. Clara had laundry to do and Malcolm needed the rest. His libido disagreed but, unfortunately, it was still housed in the body of a man in his early 50’s.

So by Tuesday morning, feeling refreshed from a long night’s sleep, he was already raring to go at the first sight of Clara’s lithe legs peeking out from a flirty little skirt. But he had an entire day of meetings and bullockings to get to, first.

And of course this had to be the fucking day that Nicola Murray was scheduled to come ‘round with Terri the Twat and Ollie the Oxbridge Cunt. Glenn was off helping his sister with some nonsense or other. Which was a shame, really, because in that band of misfit toys, Glenn was the only one Malcolm didn’t completely loathe. Glenn was a git, but a well-meaning one more often than not. Not that he’d tell the misguided moron that in a million years.

Clara swished into his office all business, hugging a file to her chest. She looked delicious and he wanted to throw her down right there on the desk. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry but I’ve got about 20 briefs that still need your approval before the noon meeting. Nicola called to say they’ll be running late – huge surprise there, I know – and Tom’s assistant sent another email about that dinner party. They must really want you there, that’s the 3rd one in almost as many weeks.”

Malcolm ran one hand down his face with a groan. “That fucking dinner. Fuck me, I’d rather spend the night shaving my balls with a straight razor. Tell him I’ll fucking be there.” He thought for a minute. “Ask them for a plus one. You ought to come with me.”

Clara raised one eyebrow. “That doesn’t exactly sound low profile… bringing me as your date to the PM’s dinner?”

“Who said date? I’ll expect a full report on the activities. Besides, it could be a good networking opportunity for you. If you want to write speeches for him, it would be prudent for Tom to know who you fucking are, yeah?” Malcolm concluded, leaning back in his seat with his fingers laced behind his head.

“Oh.” Clara’s cheeks flushed slightly, whether from embarrassment or gratitude, he hadn’t a clue. She tucked a few errant strands of  hair behind one ear. “Thank you, Malcolm. I, um, I appreciate the opportunity. I’ll ask Sally if there’s room for a plus one.”

She placed the folder on his desk and turned to leave. He eyed her arse appreciatively until she whirled back around at the doorway. Malcolm looked up, feeling almost guilty for a second before he remembered that he was allowed to look at her like that, now.

“Erm… what do I wear to the PM’s private dinner party?”

Malcolm made a face and waved a hand dismissively. “Something posh. You can use the expense account if you don’t have anything that works.” He reached for the folder and flicked it open.

Clara looked down and frowned slightly before nodding and exiting the room.

A little while later, just as he was about to shout for a refill, Clara appeared with a steaming mug of fresh coffee. Blacker than his fucking soul, bless her.

She placed it on his desk without a word and gathered up the empty one. Before she could go far, Malcolm caught her by the wrist. She glanced at the closed circuit camera in the corner of the room and then back at him, her expression unreadable.

Taking her intent, Malcolm released her wrist. “Sorry. Good call. I just wanted to see if… Would you like to come over tonight? I could make dinner. Or we could order take away if you prefer your stomach lining intact.” He offered her a crooked grin.

Clara didn’t crack a smile. Her lips pressed into a thin line and then released. “Um, I don’t think I can tonight. I have some things I ought to get done.”

Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, ok. Tomorrow night, then?”

Clara chewed her bottom lip, suddenly seeming to find the point just above his right shoulder fascinating. “Look, I… I want to talk to you about something but I know that now isn’t really the time. But I don’t think we should make any plans together until we’ve, I dunno, established some things.”

Malcolm blinked at her, his temper percolating just under the surface. What the fucking hell did that even mean? “Things?” he repeated disdainfully. “What fucking things need to be established, exactly? At work we do work _things_. When we’re not at work we can do… other _things_.”

Clara made a scoffing noise and finally looked directly at him. Her hands flew to her hips and he knew he was in for a lecture of some sort. Why that persisted in exciting parts of his anatomy… Malcolm crossed one leg over the other and looked at her expectantly.

“You know perfectly well we haven’t been good at compartmentalizing this from the start. Or else you’d  never have flown me out to DC in the first place. I had a good weekend with you. Actually, a great weekend. Possibly one of the best I’ve ever had. But we need to lay down some ground rules for….” she gestured between them with one hand, “this. You know that as well as I do. We should have talked about it on Sunday but…”

“We had far better things to do with our mouths on Sunday…” Malcolm teased, his voice low.

This time he managed to provoke a response. Clara’s gaze flared hot and not with anger. She crossed her arms protectively over her chest and he wondered if her nipples had gone hard. He wanted to take them into his mouth through the satin fabric of her blouse. He was distinctly hard, himself, now.

_Alright, perhaps she has a fucking point about boundaries at work._

“Malcolm…” Her voice had softened and he tore his gaze from her chest, returning it to her face.

“You have my attention.”

“Hmm, yeah but from which part of your body,” she replied, dryly.

“Can’t help that, love. But I am listening.”

Clara nodded her thanks and leaned against his desk, close but just out of reach. “I don’t know how else to ask this so I’m just going to ask: why invite me to the PM’s dinner party, now? He has one of these every couple of months. But you’ve never asked me along, before. You have to admit the timing is… suspicious.”

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Is that what your worried about? Nepotism?” He sniffed and leaned back in the chair. “I know you’ve got some daft noble streak about you, but that’s not gonna get you very far in this place.”

Clara pursed her lips. “So, you  did ask me because we’re sleeping together.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, sweetheart. I asked you because you’re perfectly qualified to keep company with those twats. I’d not be seen with you in either personal or professional capacity if you were anything else. The timing… it’s a fair shake to say perhaps you’re on my mind a bit more at the moment.” He eyed her up and down, appreciating the way she couldn’t quite suppress a blush. “But I’ve no intention of doing you any favors or treating you any differently than before I had my tongue in your cunt.” He replied matter-of-factly, turning his attention back to the materials on his desk.

In his peripheral, he saw Clara drop her face onto one hand. He looked back up to see her shaking her head with a bemused expression.

“God… discretion, my arse. It’s a good thing I closed the bloody door or you’d have announced that to half the office, by now.” She tilted her head to one side. “What am I going to do with you, Malcolm Tucker?”

He grinned lasciviously up at her. “Oh, I could think of a few things, Miss Clara Oswald.”

Her glance flicked once more to the camera in the corner and she edged away, primly holding the empty coffee mug in front of her with both hands.  Her expression turned serious once more. “Look, you know I just don’t want you to do me any professional favors based on our… nonprofessional time together?”

“Got it. No telling the PM that you ought to run a cabinet because you suck cock like a fucking champ,” he teased.

Clara made an exasperated sound. “Malcolm, I’m serious. Anything that happens at work… I’ve got to have earned it. I don’t want there to be a single questionable thing on my record here. You, of all people, know how important that is.”

Her expression was so earnest that he felt the sarcasm on his silver tipped tongue melt away. He rose from his desk and placed one hand on each of her upper arms. It was the closest thing he could get to a hug with the CCTV watching. All he really wanted to do was pull her into his arms and soothe away that troubled look.  He made a mental note to have those particular cameras dismantled, if at all possible.

“Clara, I would never want to compromise you, in any way. If my behavior is, at any time, questionable, I fully expect you to let me know. As you just have. And no, the invite to dinner was not on account of this weekend. I’d just never thought to ask you before. Swear on my own fucking mother’s grave.”

Clara seemed to heave a sigh of relief. “Okay. Sorry if I’m being a bit…” the sentence faded into a shrug.

“Think nothing of it.”

“I am trusting you, you know,” she continued in a somewhat steelier tone.

Malcolm swallowed as it occurred to him that she really was. Possibly more than anyone he’d ever known before. Clara’s career and reputation were quite within his hands. He had molded and shaped many a politician but in his heart, he’d never really cared about the end result so long as it would benefit the party, the country, and himself. It was a slightly terrifying thing to realize that, for what might be the first time in his life, he genuinely gave a shit about how things turned out for another person. Sam had been as close to a friend as he’d had in yonks, but she was never there to play the game. He’d never have hurt Sam, but he’d never really have been able to, either. She just wasn’t the ambitious type.

Clara was different. She here to swim with sharks and she’d just bared her tender flesh to the bloodiest fucking killer of them all.

Overwhelmed by a wave of something he couldn’t quite describe, Malcolm stumbled back, dropping his grip on Clara’s arms. “Yeah, well, I’m the fucking secret keeper and all, aren’t I? Who better?”

Clara nodded and turned to go. At the door, she turned back. “Your mother… is she really dead?”

Malcolm pursed his lips, eyes flitting between Clara and his desk. “Well, she will be someday.”

“You’re rather awful, sometimes. You know that, right?”

“Only sometimes? Must be losing my fucking touch,” he grinned.

Clara bit back a smile. “Dumb, dumber, and dumbest from DoSac will be here any minute. Look lively.”

He gave her a mock salute and she turned back to the door. “Oh, eh, Clara?”

She popped her head back in, “Hm?”

“Tonight?”

Clara returned his grin, cheekily. “I’ll think about it.”

He passed the day fighting an irrepressible grin instead of a migraine, for once.

Later that night, Clara was on his doorstep wearing a coat, a smile, and little else.

 


	15. Christmas Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written around the events of [Have Yourself a Merry Fucking Christmas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2790824). It is not necessary to read the one-shot to understand this chapter, but if you do, it fits in at the ***

Over the next few months, they found a way to navigate the tricky path between their workday positions and their nighttime… positions.

Then Christmas had come along. When Clara’s father canceled on their plans, Malcolm surprised her by inviting her to his mother’s house for the holiday. Driven by both avid curiosity and the desire not to be alone on Christmas, she agreed.

Come Christmas day, Clara found herself being swept into an unexpected hug that smelled of tobacco and spices by Malcolm’s effervescent mother. The 80-something woman (whose name was Esther but she went by Ettie) was not much taller than Clara, herself, bright-eyed and spry with bunching silver curls pulled back off of her face. Her son had clearly inherited her piercingly blue-green eyes. Clara felt as though she’d been transported to some alien world as she watched Malcom pull off his coat to reveal he was wearing a soft red jumper that looked handmade. Ettie nearly glowed with pride. Though she also tutted at her son for being skin and bones, remarking with casual fondness that Clara oughtn’t let him work so hard. Clara covered her mouth with one hand to stifle a laugh and nodded. As if anyone on earth could keep Malcolm from working himself to the bone.  Malcolm merely rolled his eyes affectionately and kissed Ettie’s cheek.

After offering refreshments, Ettie shooed them out of the kitchen with a flick of a kitchen towel.

 With a hand at the small of her back, Malcolm escorted Clara into the living room and stiffened slightly. In the middle of the floor, a middle aged woman was changing the diaper of a fussing toddler. A boy, possibly in his early teens, lay on the couch, his face obscured behind a large book. A little girl was sitting at a small table littered with art supplies, engrossed in drawing.

The woman looked up. “ ‘Bout time you got here, Mr. Fancy pants politician. Hope it didn’t make the PM cry when you left…” she glanced at Clara and tilted her head. “And who’s this, then? A bit late to be adopting, at your age, yeah?” The baby tried to squirm away, still pantless,  and the woman turned her attention back to it.

Malcolm’s hand dropped from Clara’s back and he cleared his throat. “You personally embody the fucking Christmas spirit, Dana, dear...” As he spoke, the boy on the sofa glanced up from his book long enough to give Malcolm a tentative smile. The girl at the table, however, dropped her crayons and raced over to wrap both arms around Malcolm’s spindly legs. 

“Unca Macom!” she cried out, tilting her head up. “I lost teeth,” she grinned, revealing both front teeth were, indeed, missing.

Malcolm removed her from his legs, but kept his hands on her shoulders. He crouched down so his face was nearly level with her. “Oh aye, I can see that. Did the tooth fairy give you a reward?”

The girl nodded vigorously. “10p each

Malcolm snorted and looked up at Clara. “10p? That hardly sounds fair for two perfectly good teeth, now does it?”

Clara gave him a bemused shrug. “Don’t really know the going rate, these days. Been a while since I lost mine.”

“Oh, not that long by the look of ya’,” the woman called Dana supplied with a smirk, still trying to placate her baby. Clara’s lips pressed to a thin line but Malcolm was clearly ignoring the bait.

He stroked the little girl’s hair. “Well, accounting for inflation, I’d say you’re owed by that skinflint fairy.” He dug in his pocket and produced a fiver. The child’s eyes went wide and round as she took it with a whoop of glee. She threw her arms around her uncle’s shoulders planting a loud wet kiss near his ear. He laughed and pulled her off. “Would you like to meet Uncle Malcolm’s friend, Clara?”

The girl nodded again, still staring at the 5 pound note clutched tightly in her fist. Clara had the notion the child might have agreed to practically anything after the small fortune she’d been given.

“Clara, this is Lucy.” 

Clara stooped slightly. “Hullo. That’s a very pretty dress you’ve got on, Lucy. I’m Clara.” She extended a hand.

The girl eyed it warily, suddenly gone shy. She backed up against her uncle, looking at him uncertainly.

“It’s alright. She’s a very nice lady.” Malcolm assured his niece. “Most of the time,” he added, with a wink at Clara that made her stomach flip a little.

Lucy took her extended hand briefly, squeezing the tips of her fingers, before melting back against her uncle. Clara counted it as a small victory.

Malcom inclined his head toward the boy with the book. “Over there is Patrick. He’s too cool to play with us, anymore.” He and Lucy exchanged a side-eyed look that Clara was instantly sure the girl had learned from her uncle. Patrick, clearly listening, burrowed down further into the sofa cushions.

Dana got to her feet, settling the much placated toddler on one hip, and sauntered toward them. “Don’t worry, Malc, I’m sure you can buy his affections, too, by the end of the night.”

Malcolm inclined his head “This charming mistress of sarcasm, is my sister, Dana and, finally, the little hellion on her hip is Aaron.” Aaron squealed his delight at being acknowledged and drooled slightly.

Despite their biting words, the smile the two siblings exchanged was warm and affectionate. Malcolm straightened up to sling one arm over Dana’s baby-free shoulder. Still leaning against him, Lucy was folding and refolding the 5 pound note.

Clara flushed slightly, completely uncertain what her role was supposed to be. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Um. Thank you for sharing your Christmas with me.”

“So, this is Clara Oswald,” Dana observed. “Not quite what I expected,” she murmured, extending her free hand. “How did you end up in such bad company for Christmas? Lose a bet?”

Clara’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline but when she looked at Malcom, he was busy making faces at his niece. She shook Dana’s hand. “My dad. He was in charge of Christmas and decided he’d rather not be. So, I didn’t have… plans.”

Gentle sympathy softened Dana’s gaze. “Well, I suppose that makes you an honorary member of the Tucker family for the night. God help you.”

“Did you bring presents?” Lucy blinked up at her, suddenly interested in the conversation.

Clara’s mouth fell open. She had brought a bottle of wine and a pie but she hadn’t known or thought about anything for children. She made a mental note to kick Malcolm later, when they were alone, for not even mentioning there would be children present. “Oh, I’m so sorry… I didn’t… uh know to...”

The child made a rude noise and crossed her arms.

“Lucy,” her mother said, sternly. “What did we talk about? On the train yesterday?”

Lucy’s lower lip pushed out but she turned her cherubic face once more to Clara, “I’m sorry, Miss Clara.”

“It’s okay. It’s fine, Lucy. Thank you.”

Dana stroked her daughter’s wavy brown hair, “Now don’t be greedy or maybe next year you won’t get anything, yeah?”

At Lucy’s horrified look, all three adults chuckled. Malcolm asked if he might join her at the drawing table and they took off hand in hand. Clara stared helplessly at his back until Dana spoke once more.

 “Sorry about that. Manners are still a bit of an uphill battle.”

“Oh, no really, it’s fine. I used to work with kids. I mean, older kids. Not kid-kids.” Clara explained, twisting her hands nervously in front of herself. She was going to bloody kill Malcolm. Bring her all the way out here and then just leave her with his sharp-tongued sister? Oh, he was going to get an earful, tonight. And what exactly had Dana been expecting? There’d have been no reason to mention Clara Oswald to his family, except perhaps in passing. Yet both mother and sister seemed completely unsurprised that Malcolm had brought his PA to Christmas dinner.

“A schoolteacher, right?” Dana’s voice broke Clara’s reverie.

“Yeah. Coal Hill secondary. But how did…?”

Dana grinned, extracting Aaron’s questing hand from her hair. The baby babbled another set of sounds and returned his hand. This time, Dana didn’t bother stopping him. “Malcolm told me. We do talk every now and then. When I can get the wanker on the phone.”

“And he told you I’d been a schoolteacher?”

“Mm. Yeah. He said you’d have been wasted there.” Dana shifted baby Aaron onto her other hip. “I’m glad you agreed to come. It’s not easy making it down to London, you know?  Doubt we’d have ever met, otherwise. But it’s rare that my brother speaks highly of anyone. Especially someone from Number 10. You must be… very good at your job. To have made such an impression.”

The subtext was blatant but Clara was not about to reveal more than Malcolm might want his sister to know. Clara inclined her head, graciously. “Well, he is prone to hyperbole, but I’ll take a compliment where I can get it, eh?”

Dana laughed. She looked as though she intended to reply when a loud voice from the kitchen announced that dinner was ready. The children nearly bolted out of the room and Dana went to put the baby in his chair.

Clara leaned against the doorway as Malcolm quickly cleaned up the crayons. “Your mother’s got a set of lungs on her.”

“Oh, aye. If we’d been naughty, the whole fuckin’ street knew it.” He flashed her a toothy grin as he approached.

She crossed her arms, refusing to be charmed despite the little flutter in her stomach. “Could have told me there were gonna be kids, here. I’d have picked up some little toys or something. Or that your sister knew who I was, when I didn’t even know her name until today. I felt like an idiot. Totally unprepared.”

He rounded on her, closing the space between them, still grinning. “You’ve been face to face with the PM, but you need preparation to meet my sister?”

Clara exhaled noisily. “That’s different!”

“True. Dana could probably run a small country far more effectively.”

“Malcolm…”

His face turned serious. “I didn’t actually know if she’d be here. And that’s the fuckin’ truth. Things haven’t always been… But I’m glad you’re getting to meet her, really. Once you get past the ways we’re alike, Dana’s really very pleasant.”

That forced a laugh from her. “Well, I’m sure we’ll get on just fine, then.”

“I had no doubt.” Malcolm dipped to kiss her, just a quick peck on the lips, before tucking her hand in his. “Dinner, then?”

Clara nodded. She had a million more questions she wanted to ask, but they could keep for now. She had almost never seen Malcolm so at ease, outside of the bedroom. It was both unnerving and endearing.

He led her by the hand toward the dining room. “Hope you’re hungry. Ma ‘s a fucking world-class chef – just ask her.”

***

They were snogging heavily on the porch after dinner when the sound of Dana clearing her throat broke them apart. Clara felt her cheeks flame but Malcolm looked nonplussed.

“Yeah?”

Dana crossed her arms. “Ma sent me out. If the two of you’d like to bring your ‘very professional’ relationship back in, there’s pie on the table.”

Malcolm looked down at Clara, who was still sandwiched between himself and the wall. “Pie?”

Clara swallowed and nodded, not trusting her voice.

Malcolm glanced surreptitiously downward to where he was pressed, hot and hard, against Clara’s belly.   “Ah… be there in a tick, Dana.”

His sister gave an amused snort. “Please, take your time. But don’t blame me if there isn’t any left. I’ve two hungry little mongrels in there to feed.” She turned from the doorway and sauntered back into the house.

Clara released a breathless giggle. “So much for discretion, I suppose.” 

Malcolm pulled away and adjusted himself, grinning like a schoolboy who had successfully extracted his hand from the cookie a jar.  “Well, nothing spices up Ma’s mulberry pie like a wee fucking dose of embarrassment.”

“Hmm.” Clara grabbed his arm, leaning her head against it affectionately. “So, this is a Christmas tradition, is it? Dana catching you on the front porch mid-snog….”

“This would be a first,” he admitted. “But lest I disrupt your image of me as the total fucking stallion I am, it’s only because I’ve never brought anyone else… here.”

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. “Oh.”

 He tilted her face up toward his with a gentle touch under her chin. When their eyes met, his were dark and searching. He swept an errant strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb trailing over her cheek. Clara felt the words she’d been fighting bubbling up inside like champagne. She knew it was reckless and ridiculous. She knew there was no conceivable future in all this and that she was only fooling herself.

And yet, when he looked at her like that… everything felt possible.

 


	16. Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Malcolm leaned back on the sofa surveying the room. Ma was starting to doze in front of the fire she’d had him start after dessert. She had certainly earned as long a rest as she fucking needed. Dinner had been fucking spectacular.

Aaron was tucked into his basinet in Ma’s room. Once she’d been assured that no more presents were being exchanged, Lucy had agreed to go to bed. Patrick had followed shortly after, though he’d gone more grudgingly. Over dinner he had discovered that Clara was a former English teacher. The shy, quiet boy had blossomed as Clara set about answering every question he could think of regarding the works of Arthur Conan Doyle. Clara, pink-cheeked with amusement and the cup of wine Ma kept refilling, had indulged him to the last.

Dana had grumbled about Clara’s pied piper like appeal to the men of the family, but Malcom noticed the jibes about her appearance had come to a halt. Dana only took cheap shots when she was warding off a perceived threat to herself or a loved one. Much like her brother, she didn’t trust easily. The fact she’d been willing to let Clara hold Diane’s baby by the end of the night told him that she was well impressed. Clara had been a natural with him, of-fucking-course. She looked good like that, with a wee bairn in her arms, he thought. Something twinged painfully in his chest and he told himself it was probably heartburn.

Aaron was getting big. He was starting to toddle and parts of the sounds he made were beginning to form words. With something akin to guilt, Malcolm realized he hadn’t seen any of them since Diane’s funeral. Dana had lost her eldest daughter to an overdose almost a year ago. A few months after Clara had come to work for him, in fact. Dana had suddenly found herself a mid-40s divorcee with a baby to raise alongside her other two children. She’d turned to her big brother for a little support. But he’d been so busy with work, all he’d managed to do was throw some money at her. He and Dana had been on rocky territory more than once over the years, usually over her choice of husbands. This time was different. She wasn’t angry, she was disappointed. And that had felt far, far fucking worse. They hadn’t spoken in a few months.  

Which was why he’d been so stunned to find her still here, knowing he’d show up in time for dinner. Some part of him had expected them to take Christmas Eve with Ma and then clear the fuck off. Instead, she’d greeted him as though he hadn’t been a shite brother and completely let her down in her time of need. He hadn’t brought himself to say what he fucking needed to and she had just gone on as though the whole thing had never happened. It was the Tucker way, really. If something made you feel a certain way that you couldn’t properly express in obscenities, then it was better off never said aloud.

Unbidden, his gaze wandered to Clara. Dana had pulled her into conversation after checking on the kids. Clara’s large eyes were half lidded and he suspected that she was only holding the wine glass, now, for show. If she hadn’t had one in her hand, Ma’d have been sure to press one more on her. She twirled it idly from the stem as she chuckled over the story of Patrick’s first trip to the Zoo.

Wild horses could drag him into fucking quarters before he’d ever admit it, but he’d been a bundle of nerves on the train bringing her here. Ma was not so prickly as she’d once been, age had dulled the edges. Her husband dying and Ma getting out of the old neighborhood had also helped, he thought. Malcolm felt himself tense, thinking of his Da. Even now, his body remembered all too well. Old memories could fade away but the scars would always remain. He was glad that Ma had left the house and all her old friends behind for a fresh start. She’d settled in here quite nicely and he’d liked very much the changes this new place had wrought.

 And he also liked seeing Clara look so comfortable here.

The object of his musing happened to catch his eye, just then and she smiled. That lazy, sweet smile of one well fed and liquored, in good company. He returned it with ease, lifting his glass a little.

The movement caught Dana’s attention and she head over toward him as Clara excused herself to the loo. His sister stood over him, long-boned hands on her boyish hips.

“So, you two staying here tonight, or what?”

Malcolm’s gaze flicked to the clock. It was getting quite late, they’d stayed longer than he’d intended. He had no doubt they could still catch a train back, but the idea of going back out into the witch-tit fucking cold when he was so comfortable… and knackered… and a wee bit pissed…

“Hadn’t thought about it,” he shrugged. “I suppose I could take the sofa, if Clara could bed down with you in the guest room…”

Dana gave him a skeptical look just as Ma broke her sleepy silence.

“Oh, tosh and bullshite, lad. Dana can bunk with me. The basinet’s in my room, anyway. You and your girl take the other bedroom. That one has a door that locks.”

 “Ma, she’s not my… I mean, we’re not gonna...” He began to protest, feeling remarkably young and tongue-tied.

Ettie turned in her chair and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m old not stupid, son.”

Malcolm’s mouth fell open as Dana very unsubtly covered a snort of laughter with one hand.

 “And I may be your mum but I’m not the fucking sex polis, am I? Just don’t wake the bairns, yeah?” She turned back around, leaning into the chair and closing her eyes. “Room’s yours if you want it.”

He swallowed his retort and Dana fell onto the other end of the sofa, still shaking with a fit of giggles. He glared briefly at his sister before succumbing, himself to a silly grin. “Alright by you, Great Dane?”

Dana made a face. She hated when he called her that. He’d coined it when she was 10. She’d shot up like a reed and towered over every kid at school for the next two years. As an adult she had nearly an inch on him, still. “Yeah, alright. Better than walking out to see ya’s on the bloody porch, again.” Her expression sobered as she studied the fire. “Probably end up with Lucy anyway. Poor thing’s still having those night terrors something awful.” She knocked back the rest of the drink in her hand with a grimace.

Malcolm’s jaw tightened. He wanted to say something fucking comforting. He really did. But he knew Dana would only shrug him off. After the way he’d acted about Diane, he hadn’t earned the right to offer her solace. He settled for clapping a hand on her shoulder and giving it a squeeze. It settled him slightly when she didn’t pull away.

Clara happened to return just then. Taking in the sudden shift in mood, she looked curiously between Malcolm and his sister. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Malcolm, we should probably, um, the trains will be running a lot slower tonight, so….”

With a final pat to Dana’s bony shoulder, he rose and crossed to Clara. “How would you feel about… sleeping here, tonight?” He lowered his voice. “Ma’s got it in her head that we ought to stay in the spare guest room. And if I’m honest, I haven’t the fucking energy to… disillusion her.” The fact he was a tad unsteady on his feet could only add credence to his case, but he didn’t want to fucking collapse, so he leaned against the wall.

Clara’s mouth worked for a second before she seemed to settle on an answer. “You’re too tired to talk back to someone?” she joked, half-heartedly and he chuckled. Her velvety brown gaze travelled over him, a question in it that he couldn’t decipher. “But, won’t it look…?” she said at last.

He shook his head and then regretted the motion as it made the room come unstuck before settling back into its proper place. Now that he was standing, he realized that perhaps he’d finished a bottle and a half of cabernet by himself. Fucking hell.

“Ma knows. Dana didn’t even have to tell her. Smart fucking cookie, that batty old bird…” He grinned, enjoying the touch of alliteration.

Clara flushed. She was looking at him in that strange way she did sometimes. He felt like a crossword she was trying to solve. And fuck him sideways and upside down if she wasn’t the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He wanted to tell her so, but the words were bundled up all wrong and he was afraid of the order they might come out. So he leaned in to kiss her.

Her eyes darted nervously to his dozing Mother and sister, but she let him capture the corner of her mouth before pushing him gently back.

“You wouldn’t even make it to the train station in this state, would you?” she said half-jokingly. “And I certainly can’t carry you. Alright then. Let’s get you to a bedroom.” She laced her fingers through his.

With some mumbled goodnights, he pitched forward from the wall and led her up the stairs to the small bedroom.

***

Once the door had been closed and locked, Clara allowed Malcolm to back her against it and kiss her properly. As he pressed into her, one hand on the door beside her head, the other massaging her hip, it occurred to Clara that they were both nearly as drunk as they had been the first night they slept together. Not completely rat-arsed but Malcolm had stumbled a bit on the stairs and his voice slurred slightly when he spoke. That thought, combined with being in his mother’s house made her still his hand as it began to wander to her breast.

He pulled back and blinked at her. “Something wrong?”

Clara licked her lips, noting how his gaze followed the motion. “I… I don’t think I’d feel right about… I mean, I am still a guest here and your mum is right downstairs…”

He grinned and raised one eyebrow. “If you’re worried about defiling me, sweetheart, I’ve got some very bad news for you.”

Clara tilted her head and looked up at him. “Malcolm…”

With an exaggerated sigh, he dropped a kiss to her forehead and moved away, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. “Cold shower it is, then.”

Clara bit back a grin, taking off her jewelry and turning to set it on the night table. “Sorry.”

“No need to be,” he said, dismissively as he unbuckled his belt and removed his trousers, holding onto the bedframe for balance. He was, she couldn’t help but notice, half-erect already. But he seemed to be ignoring it.

Clara tore her eyes away and reached behind herself to unzip her dress. The little tab slipped out of her grasp and she gave a little huff of frustration. Trying again at the awkward angle, she felt Malcolm approach and bat her hands away. He unzipped her slowly, pressing his lips to the back of her neck. He lingered there, his breath warm on her skin and she felt her nipples pebble.

“You don’t play fair,” she breathed as he moved the fabric off one shoulder and then the other, fingertips trailing over the flesh as he exposed it. Gooseflesh broke out in their wake and it was only partly from the slight chill in the room.

“Never said I would,” he murmured against her neck, nipping at her pulse point then soothing the spot with his tongue.

“Still not happening tonight,” she pointed out, her eyes falling closed as his teeth tugged at her earlobe.

He chuckled, a low rumble she felt more than heard. “Wasn’t trying to change your mind, love. Just fucking riling you up for later. Think of it as a preview of what’s in store for you when we get back to London.”

Releasing a breath, Clara fell back against his chest. “Tease.”

Malcolm wrapped both arms around her. “You love it.”

Clara turned her head to the side, her ear resting directly over his heart. “Spose I must or I wouldn’t still be here.” She heard him swallow hard, felt him tense at her back, but he did not reply. The room grew very quiet around them and Clara began to wonder if she had gone too far. The words held a heavier implication than either of them were really prepared to deal with, right now. They spent nearly every waking moment in one another’s company, working or fucking, but they never spoke about it. Never gave it a name, whatever this thing was that was happening between them.

They had never so much as gone on a date, unless she counted their day trip in DC. Which, considering how it had played out, she really didn’t want to do.

Clara felt them both begin to sway on their feet, though whether it was from tiredness or drink she couldn’t have said. “Bed?” she ventured, at last, setting aside her muddled, racing thoughts.

“Aye,” he said softly, unwinding his arms and padding over to the other side of the mattress. Clara slipped off her bra and they both burrowed under the down blanket.

They had never turned on the light, as the moon hung full and bright in the sky. Clara watched the shadows move on the ceiling, Malcolm’s breathing beside her growing shallow. This wasn’t a place she had ever expected to find herself. Either mentally or emotionally. Or geographically, for that matter, but that bit was less important.

She’d really never intended to want… this. Not ever again. Not after....

But oh… she was almost certain now that she did. 

_Oh God._

Malcolm shifted beside her, snaking one arm across the mattress and pulling her into him. She went willingly, rolling toward his warmth. He mumbled something into her hair.

“What wassat?” she mumbled, wondering if he was talking in his sleep.

“I’m glad,” he repeated, his voice gravelly and thick.

 “Hm. Of?”

He nuzzled her neck. “That you’re still here.”

Clara’s breath caught. She licked her lips. “Happy Christmas, Malcolm,” she whispered.

“Yes.” His arm around her tightened. “ It is.”

_Oh God._


	17. Christmas Past

They’d left before the rest of the house was awake. They could make much better time if they took the early train. Clara was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride back. Pale and serious faced, not really looking him in the eye and answering in monosyllable. At first, he’d thought she was just sleepy or hung over. He was a bit of both. But that had never stopped Clara before. Usually whatever was on her clever mind came out of her mouth, if only to fill the silence. She didn’t like silences.

Malcolm liked them fine. They were useful for both intimidation tactics and wool gathering. He’d have been chuffed to spend the whole train ride enjoying the sound of just his internal monologue. Plenty to do. Coupes to avert and reputations to ruin. Dozens of calls to make as soon as he was at his desk. But he wasn’t enjoying the quiet as much as he’d like to.

Something felt off about it. Fucking unnatural.

He pursed his lips and glared down at his blackberry. A little over an hour and a half left and Clara felt like a fucking ghost at his side.

Had he done something? Said something?

It wasn’t entirely unlike him to put his foot in it, especially when he’d had a few. But, they’d come to an agreement weeks ago that they wouldn’t pussyfoot around shite, anymore. Good to her word, Clara had given him a right dressing down just last week over an unfortunate word choice he’d made about her figure. He’d apologized by making his true feelings about her spectacular arse abundantly clear in both word and deed. They hadn’t slept much but Clara had been humming as she labored over the coffee machine the following morning. He had assumed that meant he was forgiven.

This was different. Clara wasn’t being prickly or shirty with him. When he asked her what was wrong, she simply shook her head and said she was tired.

He knew tired Clara. Tired Clara was giggly, short-tempered, and oddly creative. She had some of her best ideas once he’d worn her out. A fact he still hadn’t had a chance to take full advantage of. He reminded himself to look into dismantling the camera in his office. That is, if Clara got over whatever the fuck it was she was dealing with enough to even let him act out that particular fantasy. She had seemed game when he described it to her a few weeks ago…

_Her stuffing her knickers in his pocket before easing herself onto his desk, her feet on the handles of his chair, rucking up her skirt to reveal herself to him. She’d be dripping wet and eager and he’d be dying for a taste. But first she’d make him watch as she teased herself just to the breaking point, before letting him bury his face in her sweet cunt. He’d get her there as many times as she’d allow, looking up just long enough to see her muffling her cries with one hand…_

Fuck.

He adjusted his coat over his lap. Clara, still staring listlessly out the window, didn’t seem to notice. Small miracle, that, he supposed.

 Last night had been the first night they’d spent together without having sex. He was probably just a bit pent up. It would pass. He could have a wank back at his place, as Clara didn’t seem like she’d be game, at this rate.

Which was fine. He was a fucking adult and he’d been taking himself in hand for more years than she’d been on this earth. He winced at that thought. Dana’s remarks about Clara’s age had hit a little deeper than he’d have liked. The two of them went out together so rarely, when not in a working capacity. It was easy to fool himself into thinking that they could look even remotely suitable, side by side. Things worked so well in private, after all.

And Dana had relented, eventually.

“I like her,” his sister had said, pulling him aside after dessert. “Apart from her clearly terrible taste in men, I think she’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

Then Lucy had spilled a glass of milk and Dana was off to get a dishcloth. He hadn’t had a chance to tell her that it wasn’t like that, between them. Not exactly. It wasn’t like that because it couldn’t be and he wasn’t stupid enough to think for a moment that it ever would be.

Malcolm’s eyes flicked to Clara again. She seemed to be half dozing, now. She really was a lovely young thing, long dark lashes sweeping her rosy apple cheeks. She looked so achingly young, at rest. He probably looked like a fucking angel of death at her side. Or worse, her fucking father.

His throat constricted. Perhaps she’d taken Dana’s words to heart, too. Only she hadn’t wanted to say anything until they left. She’d be well within her rights to leave this shriveled old man behind, in search of greener, strapping young pastures.

But he hoped against hope that she wouldn’t just yet. He wasn’t ready for her to leave. He harbored no illusions about his prospects of having Clara in his life for more than the time it took for her to tire of whatever it was she managed to find likeable about him. He suspected multiple orgasms didn’t hurt. If nothing else, they were intensely sexually compatible. He hadn’t had that in years and it would be a hell of a blow when he lost her. It. Them. Whatever.

If Malcolm had been the type of man who prayed, he might have winged a few words skyward in an attempt to ease the tension in his belly. As it was, he grit his teeth and wrenched his gaze away from his beautiful companion. He leaned his head back against his seat and went through the day’s to do list for the tenth time.

Eventually, the train stopped and Malcolm realized he must have dozed a bit himself. He gave Clara a gentle shake. She woke with a start, staring wide-eyed before recognition dawned.

At the platform he fiddled with his phone, stalling for time. “I think I ought to head into the office. Make sure they haven’t managed to bury themselves in their own fucking feces while I was gone.”

Clara snapped out of her faraway expression and nodded. “Yeah, alright. D’you need a hand?”

His eyebrows raised, almost of their own accord. “Back to the fucking land of the living, are we?”

She gave him a hard look that told him he’d somehow managed to say exactly the wrong fucking thing. “Do you or don’t you?”

He sighed heavily. “You know mind reading is not actually on my very impressive CV, as much I’d fucking like it to be. If you’re gonna fucking string me up by my bollocks, can I at least know the crime?”

Clara’s mouth dropped open and then closed, she looked away. “Sorry, Malcolm.” She covered her face with both hands. “It’s not you, I promise.” It was only when her shoulders began to shake that he realized she was crying.

With just a cursory glance to ensure there were no prying eyes, Malcolm pulled her to him. “Come on, then, hen. What is it? Ma’s cooking wasn’t that bad, yeah?”

Clara gave a damp chuckle, leaning heavily into his chest. “No, not that. Everything was… everything was perfect, actually. Really…” the end of the sentence was swallowed up by a fresh sob.

Malcolm clutched her to him, helplessly. He toyed with the hair escaping her woolly hat, his other hand rubbing her back through her coat. And then, he suddenly realized he was a fucking idiot.

The boyfriend. Not the embezzling prick he’d gotten rid of but the one before that. The teacher who’d died. Had it happened near Christmas? Malcolm tried to think back to the file he’d had made when Clara first applied. But even his superlative memory was not perfect. He couldn’t exactly ask the woman currently weeping in his arms.

 “I’ll, um, I’ll tell you what. I can check my messages from your place. Why don’t we go there first, run you a hot bath… get some breakfast in you?”

She nodded into his coat.

He called a car and they went round to hers.

Once there, she seemed calmer. Her tears had dried and she smiled, almost shyly, up at him. “You’re being nice to me, again.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the softness in her eyes. “Happens now and then, I suppose.”

She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Thank you, Malcolm. Christmas hasn’t been the easiest for me the last couple years and now…” her mouth clamped shut and she swallowed. Her gaze darted away and back.

Ah. So, it had been about the boyfriend. Something inside him twisted. Part of him wanted to take away the pain in her eyes, fading now though it was, back into the past where it fucking belonged. Part of him wanted to run for days and never look back. Because it wasn’t right the way she could un-man him with those big brown eyes. The way he just wanted to wipe clean all her yesterdays and turn them into better tomorrows. Fuck him, if she wasn’t going to be the fucking death of him.

He struggled for words that might bring comfort without bringing into question his unsurpassed manliness. “S’alright now, though. Yeah? We’ve got this Christmas thing fucking covered. New Year’s, too, if you’re fucking game.” He grinned in a way he hoped was roguishly appealing. “I’ll give you a much better countdown than any cunt on the telly.” At some point, as a lark, they had begun keeping a running tally of her orgasms per session. He wasn’t sure he could get her to 10 by midnight, but he’d sure as hell be willing to give it a go.

 Clara playfully swatted his shoulder and grinned, top teeth grazing her lower lip. “And here I thought you were sure to go for the joke about balls dropping…”

He snorted. “Too fucking obvious. Give me some credit for creativity.”

Clara cocked her head to the side, her eyes locked on his. The amusement faded into a warmth that made his heart race. “Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for yesterday and…” she laughed lightly, “for being nice to me when I need it.” She leaned up to brush her lips to his.

He felt his eyes slip closed as he kissed her back. It began chastely enough, but he’d wanted her so badly all night… He deepened the kiss without thinking, backing her up against the kitchen counter. When it occurred to him that this was probably an incredibly inappropriate moment, he began to pull back. Clara made a sound of protest, yanking at his coat lapels to bring his mouth back to hers.

Fuck it.

If this was what she wanted too, who was he to deny it?

He threw off his coat and rid Clara of hers. In one swift motion, she was seated on the counter with him between her legs. Her hands went to his belt and fly, making short work of both. She pumped him to full hardness – no difficult task as he’d been halfway there for hours. He worked his hands beneath her skirt and she lifted her hips so he could pull off both tights and knickers in one go.

Still bent at the waist, cock throbbing into the chill air, he planted an open-mouth kiss on her slit.

“Malcolm,” she whimpered, insistently.

God, he loved her like this. Wet and needy and wanting him… He lined them up with one hand, sinking into her heat with a few choice words. He pulled out slowly then pushed back in, watching his cock disappear inside her.  She groaned. He repeated the motion, this time keeping his eyes on her face. Her kiss-swollen mouth formed a little moue, her large eyes dark and half-lidded. She was so fucking perfect.

And it was in that moment. That ridiculous moment, mid-thrust in her kitchen, after she’d just been lamenting her late boyfriend’s death, that Malcolm realized it wasn’t just about this. It wasn’t just the sex; perhaps it never had been. And he was a fucking goner. Totally obliterated. Fucking fucked.

Because he, Malcolm Fucking Dark Overlord of Spin Tucker, was arse over fucking tea kettle in love with Clara Oswald.

“Goddamnit!” Clara’s heels dug into the backs of his thighs. “Stop teasing and fuck me, Malcolm!”

His head still reeling from this new, though not entirely unexpected, information, Malcolm hastened to obey. He pistoned his hips, falling into a rhythm he knew she liked. Clara swore loudly, her head falling back. She placed one hand behind herself, clutching his shoulder with the other, and met him thrust for thrust. She felt amazing, clenching around him, but his mind was a million miles away. 

How could he have let this happen? How had he managed to fuck up so utterly as to let this bitty woman so fucking completely far in? He’d convinced himself years ago that he was far better off without a woman in his life to disappoint. He’d allowed himself an exception for Clara because, frankly, he hadn’t wanted anyone so badly in… Christ, probably half as long as she’d been alive. Dirty old fucking pervert that he was. By some miracle, his desire had been reciprocal.

Since he’d gone and broken one rule, all the others seemed to have come tumbling down far too fast. If he’d been honest with himself (and when was he ever that fucking honest with himself?) he’d have seen it coming for ages, now. But he’d buried his fucking head in the sand, like a numptie. Let his prick do the thinking for him. Last month, he’d given her a drawer at his place, an extra toothbrush in the holder beside his. For emergencies, he’d said at the time. Clara had just smiled enigmatically and dragged him to bed by his tie. Now, he’d gone and taken her to Ma’s for Christmas. No matter what daft excuse he’d given himself at the time, it was all turned to dust, now.  

He continued to move against her, trying to re-focus on the sensations to keep himself from spinning out, completely.

Alright, so he’d always fucking liked her. Liking a person was fine – rare, in his experience, but not the worst thing that could happen. You could get over liking a person; just get past it if you fucking needed to. But love? Love was a psychotically dangerous beast. Love was unpredictable and hard to control. It could eat you alive in a single, remorseless second.

Malcolm knew this because he’d fucking lived it all before. And he really wasn’t sure he wanted to go through it again. Providing the woman in question even felt remotely the same. Far, far better for her if she didn’t.

Either way, he’d better get his head back in the fucking game because Clara was close. He could tell by the little sounds she was making, that look of concentration. He brought a hand between them to tease her clit. That pushed her over the edge. Clara shuddered around his length, her nails digging into his shoulder through the fabric of his jumper.

As excited as he’d been earlier, that might have been enough to finish him off. Now, he was so lost in his muddled thoughts, he almost missed her leaning in to kiss him. He kissed her back, distractedly, still driving his hips forward. He continued fucking her on autopilot until she put her free hand to his chest.

 “Malcolm. Stop.”

“What’s wrong?”

She searched his eyes, her own full of concern. “Is, um, is everything ok?  You just… you seem really far away…”

He looked at her, guiltily. Of all the horrible things he could be called (often rightly so), a lazy fucking lover was never one of them.

She frowned. “Is it because of me? What I… said earlier?”

Malcolm scoffed lightly, slipping out of her as he moved back. “Does your ego know no fucking bounds?” He pulled up his pants and trousers, using the motion as an excuse to avoid her eyes.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Reluctantly, he met her gaze. “No, lo – um, sweetheart. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. It’s nothing to do with your ghosts of Christmas past, yeah?”

Clara looked skeptical. “Well then what is it? We’ve only just got back. The government hasn’t had time to go into another crisis just yet.” A wan smile as she slid down from the counter and extended an arm toward him.

Malcolm shook his head, stepping out of her reach and pulling his blackberry out of his pocket. He flashed the screen toward her. “Look, spin doesn’t really take a fucking holiday, yeah? Tom’s been emailing me since midnight, Jenny from News Night got whiff of that new policy and she’s been sniffing ‘round Fat Pat – God knows why anyone would wanna do that – and Nicola’s giving a speech tomorrow that, so far, reads like it was written in fucking crayon on glummy mummy’s wallpaper.”

Clara put both hands up. “Okay, yeah, got it. I hadn’t seen the email with the speech yet. That bad is it?” She rolled her eyes. “She should know better than to hand it over to Ollie, by now. I’ll just have a quick shower. We can grab breakfast on the way in.”

Malcolm’s stomach twisted with a keen desperation to extrapolate himself from this situation as fast as possible. He needed some time to get his head together. Time without those big curious eyes and quick tongue of hers anywhere near. “No. No, ah… you stay home today. Just… just fucking enjoy your holiday. I’ve got this.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a speech. That’s where I usually come in….”

“I did fucking manage before you came along, you know. Sam didn’t do the speeches. All me.” He pointed to himself. Met with her scrutinizing look, he softened his tone. “Come on, Clara… it’s not a punishment to take a day off. You’ve more than earned it, I promise.”

Clara looked confused and little bit hurt but she shrugged it off. “Fine. I’ll be here if you need me. Go save us all from Nicola’s fuckwittery.” She paused. “Um, thanks.”

Malcolm nodded, heaving an inner sigh of relief. “I’ll call you tonight.” He dropped a quick kiss to her forehead before gathering up his coat and leaving her flat, all the while pretending the fucking tectonic plates of his world hadn’t shifted out from under him.


	18. The Policy

Things were oddly quiet for a day or two. Despite Malcolm’s insistence that there were numerous fires still waiting to be put out, he seemed to call upon her very little. In the end, she had helped out with the speech, via email. She knew it better than Malcolm did, since she’d been the one to give DoSaC the notes. At any other time, she’d have been chuffed that Malcolm actually needed her expertise on something. That he wasn’t the omniscient God the Communications office for just a moment. This exact moment, however, did not feel like one for gloating.

He did call her that night but they’d only talked about work and he’d declined her invitation to come back over and finished what they’d started in the kitchen.

The next day at the office, he appeared to be avoiding her. He even got up and fetched his own bloody coffee.

Lips pressed to a thin line, Clara watched him march past her without making eye contact. He didn’t seem angry but something was bothering him. She had a sneaking suspicion it was about her breakdown at the train station. Sheer embarrassment was the only thing keeping her from outright confronting him.

She’d been so overwhelmed after Christmas dinner, she had barely slept a wink. The insomnia had only made things worse. Clara was usually much better at keeping herself together, but thinking of Danny had always seen her at her weakest. She’d spent the whole train ride wondering if he’d be wishing her well or thinking her mad for having a relationship with Malcolm… A relationship of what kind, she still wasn’t exactly sure, but there could be no other word for the way they had thus far entwined their lives.

Clara knew that Malcolm’s feelings for her were stronger than he let on. It probably wasn’t love but it was certainly more than just lust. They’d have both grown bored by now if physical heat were the only thing between them.

She knew that she cared for him. Deeply. Far more than she’d ever have suspected she would when sitting in the chair across from him a year ago. Back then, he’d frightened and intrigued her, made her want to dig in her heels and show him what she was made of. Now… now he took her breath away with his kindness rather than his cruelty. It was his warmth that made her hands shake and her heart beat faster, not the icy blue of even his hardest glare.

For the first time in a long time, Clara had begun to let herself feel something. Something real and deep and rich. That was far more terrifying than any bollocking Malcolm could give to ever his most hated political foil.

She’d once promised Danny all of her heart and all of her tomorrows. Even after his death, she’d thought she left both things at his grave. The few blokes she’d dated after him had been faceless, meaningless. A way to pass the time. Gary had been on his way to joining that list until Malcolm intervened, in the best way possible.

_Malcolm._

It always seemed to come back to Malcolm, these days. Laying in his arms at the end of Christmas day, her heart and stomach both pleasantly full, she’d almost wept. Because she knew that she wanted to take back her promise to Danny. She wanted some of those tomorrows for herself. And for Malcolm, if he’d have them.

Was that so wrong?

Without knowing the answer, she’d gone and made a fool of herself over it. Things seemed ready to be patched up but Malcolm had retreated. She could feel it. Even while making love to her, some part of him had left the room.

She took a deep breath and knocked on his door. No answer. She knocked louder.

“Busy. Hold my calls,” he said, at last.

“Malcolm, I do your calendar. I know you’re not that busy.” She put her hand on the knob, gathering some steel to her spine. “I’m coming in.” She opened the door and stepped through.

He was not at his desk. Instead, he was sprawled on the small sofa. His jacket was off and tie loosened. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow. He looked up at her with red-rimmed, glassy eyes.

She moved closer, concern for his well-being overtaking her nervousness. “Christ… Did you even sleep last night?”

He looked away, “What do you want, Clara?”

Clara made an impatient noise hands at her hips, “What the hell is going on, Malcolm?”

He grimaced and leapt to his feet. “Got a fucking lot on my mind.” He brushed past her toward the door, calling over one shoulder, “I’m off for a walk.”

Clara blinked at his back. “A walk?”

“Aye, a fucking walk!” At the door he turned and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t fucking start.” Grabbing  his coat so roughly the rack nearly tipped over, he stormed out.

With that, Clara found herself standing in an empty office, unsure if she ought to be angry or confused. She settled on both. With a huff of frustration, she went back to her desk.

Malcolm returned an hour later holding a paper bag and two file folders. He dropped the folders unceremoniously onto her desk.

Clara sat back in her chair, “Oi!”

“For the speech on Tom’s new policy.” He pointed to the grey folder. “The other one is for the vault.”

The vault was just a large safe in the corner of his office that only he had the code to. Initially, he’d wouldn’t  let her anywhere near it. Now, he would open it for her on the condition that she not get too curious about the contents. Not that she didn’t often read the folders she filed for him in there. He knew she could keep a secret, he just didn’t want any additional questions.

It was mostly blackmail material on the Ministers and other higher-ups, scandals Malcolm had successfully hidden but might want to refer to, later. Occasionally, she spotted one or two items of a more political nature.

Without looking up, Clara pulled the folder with the speech materials closer. “Fine. I’ll have a draft on your desk by end of day.” She kept her tone flat and clipped. He may be over whatever had crawled up his arse this morning but she certainly wasn’t.

Malcolm lingered, unspeaking.

“Anything else?” she asked, brusquely.

“Yeah, Jonah used the coffee pot again. The shite in there tastes like it was run off a homeless man’s bollocks. Not sure why, but you’re the only fucking PA in the place can make a decent fucking cuppa.” When Clara said nothing, he gave a dry laugh. “Seriously, I’ll have to get a fucking tetnus shot from that swill. Think I found a fucking pubic hair –”

“Coffee and a speech. Fine. Got it.” Clara cut him off before he could get on a roll. He was trying to deflect with humor. He did that when he was nervous. Good. Would be nice to have him on the rails, for once.

In her peripheral, she saw his free hand twitch before dipping into the paper bag and removing a wrapped package. He dropped it on her desk with a mumbled, “thought you might be fucking hungry,” and disappeared into his office.

After a moment, curiosity got the better of her and she unwrapped the paper package. It was a pain au chocolat, warmed so the chocolate was gooey on the inside. Her favorite. With a sigh, she turned her head to study Malcolm’s closed door. She could hear him on his mobile yelling vitriol at some poor wanker. Why did he have to been such an arsehole one moment and then unexpectedly thoughtful the next?

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, rubbing at them with the heels of her palms. The day wasn’t half over and she was bloody exhausted. She wanted to stay angry at Malcolm but she could already feel it slipping away.

“Irritating man,” she muttered, pulling away from her desk and heading to the kitchen to make more coffee.

Malcolm nodded appreciatively as she’d handed over the fresh mug, never pausing from the dressing down he was giving the person on the receiver.

Settling back at her desk, Clara picked up the first file. As she nibbled at her pastry, she waded through the notes to fish out some key points that would show the policy in the best light. They’d been drafting a campaign around it that was set to launch in January. Fat Pat had raised a fuss about working over the holidays so it had been dumped on Malcolm.  It was being touted as a fantastic money saver and showing a lot of promise in the early poll numbers. The Opposition had floated something similar a few years back and Malcolm had crushed it, but this version was said to be fiscally sound and much more far reaching.

After she’d printed a decent first draft, she picked up that and the blue file for the vault to take them to Malcolm. A few papers fell out of the file and the title of one caught her eye. Odd. This was about the same policy. Looking around her in the nearly empty office, Clara flipped open the report.

As Clara turned page after page, her eyes got wider and her stomach got sicker. Now she knew why Malcolm had wanted this report hidden away. This thing wasn’t just another in a long list of turds they’d had to polish for Tom. This was an epic bloody disaster waiting to happen.

“Have you read this file?” Clara stormed into Malcolm’s office, holding up the innocuous looking blue folder.  

“Yes, I read every piece of paper that comes across my desk because I clearly don’t have enough to do with my time.” He didn’t look up from his blackberry, thumbs moving at lightning speed.

“I’m serious, Malcolm. It’s that new policy Tom’s been going ape over. All the research points to a massive upsurge in unemployment if it goes into effect. Has Tom even seen this?”

“Who do you think gave it to me?”

“So, what you gonna do about it?” Clara put her other hand on her hip, shifting her stance.

He finally met her gaze, looking slightly peeved. “Push the policy. Bury that,” he nodded to the file in her hand, “where not even MI6 can find it. That’s what the fucking vault is for.”

“But three different experts said that –”

“Aye and 10 more will say whatever it is I fucking tell them to say.”

“It’s a bad policy,” she countered, temper rising fast.

“I’m aware,” he replied nonchalantly. “It’s not the first bad policy we’ve sold to the public. Or haven’t you seen enough to know snake oil when you’re hocking it?”

Clara’s mouth dropped open, a noise of surprise and anger escaping her. “This is the first on this scale! That’s 30% of the city, not to mention a few odd counties would see a toll. Malcolm… I know you’re bloody good at your job but this is… reprehensible. Even for this office.”

He scrubbed one hand over his face. “Look, Clara, do I not give you enough to do? I mean, did your fucking library card expire? I just need you to write what I tell you to write, not read the whole fucking file.”

Clara fixed him with a fulminating glare. “There’s snake oil and there’s poison. How could you, in good conscience, let this go forward?”

His mouth went flat and tight, nostrils flaring. “Because it’s what we fucking do, here. Conscience has fuck all to do with it. The policy will do exactly what it fucking promises and the end result is what Tom cares about.” He made a slicing gesture with one hand. “There are long term benefits.”

“That are not guaranteed. And a lot of people could suffer if it all goes wrong. And it will, according to this research!” Clara waved the file again, more emphatically this time. She could feel her face heating, her voice rising. This was not a fight she was about to back down from. Not when she knew she was right. And she knew Malcolm was better than this.

“Look, if you can’t do your job, you’re worse than fucking useless. Do as you are fucking told or don’t bother fucking being here at all,” Malcolm snapped, slamming one hand down on his desk.

Clara saw red. “Is that what you do? Christ, Malcolm… Are you the PM’s right hand man? Or his bloody puppet?”

Malcolm shot up from his seat, the air around him practically crackling. He stalked toward her, slowly. Clara’s breath was coming short but her own anger kept her spine straight and head high. She clutched the file with white-knuckled fingers and tilted her head up, defiantly. When they were nearly toe to toe, she had to crane her neck slightly to keep meeting his gaze, but she was determined not to blink first. Even as furious as she was, the scent of his aftershave made her stomach give a flutter. She pushed away the image of him applying it while shirtless in her bedroom.

“You want to know who I am, sweetheart?” he hissed, his voice low and deadly. “I’m the man who has broken every fucking bone in his body to remold them into whatever fucking shape this party needed. You wanted to work here. You chose this fucking office because you know what I can fucking do. What I’ve always fucking done.” He leaned in even closer and frisson of excitement ran through her. He was chillingly magnificent in his rage.

She almost hated him in that moment, with a raw, visceral passion that thrilled her.

“I’m the man behind the fucking curtain, Clara.” He continued, his breath warm on her face. “The fucking Wizard of Spin. Now you’ve got a fucking choice: You can toe the party line like a good little munchkin or click your fucking heels back to the black and white fucking nowhere you came from.”

She was shaking with the effort of not slapping his eyebrows off. “No. There’s a third option. The one where I leave with my integrity intact. Perhaps you can live with putting Party over the people, but I can’t.” She backed away slowly, making certain he knew it was a deliberate choice and not a retreat. “If you can… you’re not the man I thought you were. And if that’s true – ” her voice broke and she shook her head.

His jaw spasmed, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Clara….”

She forced herself to continue, “if that’s true, then maybe this was all a mistake.” She shouldn’t have said it aloud, shouldn’t even have thought it. But there it was, inescapable. An enormous elephant standing between them. Please, she thought, please let him prove her wrong.

Malcolm’s eyes flared hot and then went cold. Colder than she’d ever seen them, cold enough to burn.

He bared his teeth in the mockery of a smile, “Don’t delude yourself, sweetheart. I’m exactly the fucking man you thought I was. Whatever fantasy you’ve chosen to believe… “ he sniffed, sweeping one hand the length of his body, “this is it. This all there fucking is and ever will be. There are no fucking heroes in this world and you’re certainly fucking old enough to know better.”

“Why would you say that?” she exclaimed. “Why do you want me to see the worst in you?”

“Because the worst is all there is,” he snarled. “This was who I fucking am. Who I’ve spent decades becoming. Did you really think you could undo that with a wet cunt and warm smile?”

Clara’s face went from pink to pale, her breath escaping sharply. She wanted to say something back, something horrible, but nothing would come.

“Now get out.” Malcolm continued, flinging a hand toward the door. “I don’t have time to waste on this arsebrained idealism of yours. Come back when you’ve got yourself right in the head or don’t fucking come back at all.”

Oh, and there were the tears. Not of sadness, not yet. Angry tears, tears of rage. Just nipping at the backs of her eyes. And she had to get out of there because this was not a man she wanted to cry in front of. Not this Malcolm. Not the towering inferno of rage, refusing to bat an eye at injustice and belittling her for her noncompliance. This was a man she didn’t really know at all.

She wanted to stay, to make him take it all back. To start the day over and stop this before it got so out of hand. But she couldn’t.

So she fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be another 3 chapter arc that I will update next week and the week after.  
> (This is why it took so long to post this. I had to fix it and these fuckers were being too damn stubborn!)


	19. Broken

Malcolm watched Clara leave, trembling. His blunt nails were digging half-moons into his palms and his blood was racing. The click of her heels faded from the office, possibly for the last time.

And the cold, reptilian part of his brain congratulated him on a job well done. Clara had wormed her unwanted way into his heart, touched his tender unprotected underbelly. She was a threat. And now she’d been eliminated. She’d seen the true nature of the beast and beat a retreat as fast as her tiny feet could carry her. And he was far fucking safer without her around to tempt him away from the empire he’d built. This was what it should be. It was all a cunt like him deserved, after all.

His stomach was a pit of boiling fucking lava as a nearly inhuman sound escaped his mouth. He brought one fist down on his desk so hard he fancied the wood would splinter. He wanted it to break apart. He wanted to tear the room to fucking pieces with his bare fucking hands. When the varnished wood didn’t even dent, he struck it again. And again. And again.

He picked up a paperweight and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack. He shoved folders and files to the floor, pummeling the desk until pain lanced through his hands. He threw himself into his seat, breathless.  

Fuck her.

Fuck him.

Fuck everything.

The world could go to fucking Hell for all he cared, because he was already fucking there.

His throat worked around a wretched sob and he bit his battered fist to keep it from escaping. But it was too late. His eyes blurred, hot fat tears sliding down his cheeks. Regret began to creep back in, freezing out the anger and turning him limp and lifeless. He sagged against his chair, taking short gasping breaths.

What had he gone and fucking done?

His anger had always been his undoing. Not at work. No, at work it was an asset, a well-honed weapon. Let them fear so long as they obey.

But this hadn’t been about work and they had both fucking known it. It hadn’t been about work between them for a long fucking time, now. And he’d been fucked from the first moment he touched her. Maybe even before that.

The moment she’d worn that low-backed dress to the PM’s dinner, and looked at him with those big dark hungry eyes. He’d sold his soul at the price of her mouth, the press of her body, the completion he found in the cradle of her thighs. He’d fallen in love with loving her. And that was why he needed her gone.

Love was a weakness he hadn’t afforded himself for years. It would have been bad enough if she wasn’t his PA, but at least then he could have kept his worlds separate. He could let Work Malcolm do what he must, turning off or lowering the voice of his conscience when needed. But Clara had turned the bloody thing up to 11 and then broken the knob off. He knew the policy was a piece of piss; he’d known before Clara ever pointed it out. But it wasn’t good for the party for this policy to fail. There were myriad subtle reasons this needed to get pushed through, some of which benefited him, as well. Clara didn’t always do so well with subtlety, with the grey morality of lesser evils.

Little things like lying to the press came natural as breathing to her, but she believed in taking the high ground in most things. They’d gotten in the occasional tiff before over her need to save the day, as it were. Nothing like this, though. Not to the point where she’d ever purposely insulted him or he’d threatened her job.   

Of course, he could have fucking well put that folder in the fucking vault himself. Some part of him wondered if he hadn’t wanted her to see the contents of that file.

Maybe he’d wanted things to work out this way.

He dropped his face into his hands, groaning, then winced as he realized how much damage his outburst had done. He may have broken a finger or two. Wouldn’t be the first time. His father had broken two fingers, his nose, and a guitar one night in a drunken rage. He’d been 13 years old and still just learning to play. He’d had some talent and the fingers healed alright but he could never bring himself to pick up a guitar again after that.

Malcolm tried a few hand movements and had to fight back a wave of nausea. His vision was a black around the edges as he sucked in breath.

Fuck.

Gingerly, he picked up the phone and called for transport to the closest hospital. Cleaning up the rest of this fucking mess would have to wait.

***

Once his broken pinky and ringfinger had been set, Malcolm insisted on returning to the office. Too much fucking work to do to lollygag around the hospital, flirting with the nurses in hopes of getting a few extra opioids. Plus, he now had no reliable, competent PA to watch the office. Courtesy of his own ridiculous temper.

Back at his desk, he picked things up as best he could, kicking a toppled pile of paperwork before tipping the bin on one side to shovel it in. He had digital copies of everything, anyway. The piles of paperwork were at least partly for show.

The grey haired, sour-faced nurse at hospital had told him not to use his hands for anything strenuous for a little while. But, as usual, he ignored the good advice. It was almost enjoyable, the solid jolts of pain that shot up his arm when something nudged the damaged fingers. Just fucking rewards for being an epic fuck up, that’s all it was. He pushed over another stack of paperwork to reveal the blue folder that had started this fiasco.

He glared at it. That fucking policy. Tom’s new pet project. Sometimes he truly hated the Prime Minister, not as a figurehead but as a man. He wasn’t alone. The press was none too friendly to Nutter Tom, as some still called him. Malcolm put out some of the fires but always left a few sparks in the background. It was good to keep approval ratings from going too high. You had to be at least a little bit hateable to be the sort to even want to go into fucking politics. Let alone try and run a whole fucking country.

Not to mention that any dip in Tom’s approval ratings kept Malcolm busy and essential to this office. He’d played that hand very carefully for years. If this policy did go tits up – and, yes, there was a very likely chance it would – Malcolm would be ready with a shovel for the shit. Once again, he’d be their fucking hero.

But was it really worth putting the people through all that? He knew they could recover the losses over time. Nothing that wasn’t fixable. Clara hadn’t been thinking long term enough. In the grand scheme, it would just be another economic blip. Ten years from now, the country would barely remember it. Ten years from now was not that long a time, really.

He’d been at this for three times that, by now. And it had gone by in a flash. Blood, sweat, tears, and whatever fractured bits of soul he’d had left shed off layer by layer in this fucking office and others like it. He was the job and the job was him.

Until, somehow, Clara Fucking Oswald had reawakened the man. The Malcolm Tucker who ate Neopolitan ice cream in bed, not-so-accidentally dribbling it on Clara’s breasts and licking it off. The Malcolm Tucker who took almost a whole day off on a train up to fucking Sheffield for the 1 year birthday of babies to whom he wasn’t even related. The Malcolm Tucker who had skived off meetings in DC to go on a day trip with a beautiful girl and ended up miraculously snogging her at the back of a seedy pub.

Who was that man and what place did he have here at Number 10?

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them with the heels of his palms. His fingers throbbed and he thought about taking another pain pill. But he needed at least some wits about him if he was going to get through the rest of this obscenely awful fucking day.

The folder was still at his feet. He lowered himself down, groaning as his muscles and joints protested sitting on the floor at his age. He flipped through it, skimming the semi-familiar contents.

Clara was right. It was a shite policy. Any decent man would stop it in its tracks. Before it could infect the public and ruin fucking lives. Abort the monstrous thing and put the country out of its pending fucking misery. But what did he even know about decency anymore?

He ran his good hand through his hair, hearing his blackberry buzz on the desk. Almost simultaneously, there was a knock at the door.

No time to think about that, now. Right now, Malcolm Tucker still had fucking work to do.

***

Back at her flat, Clara had moved past anger, past hitting cushions and cursing Malcolm’s name, to putting on pajamas and eating chocolate in front of the telly. She supposed she ought to be brushing up her CV, getting ready to apply to new jobs before Malcolm could totally poison the well. But right now, she couldn’t give a toss about any of that.

Right now, she just wanted to become one with her sofa, and perhaps several boxes of takeaway.

He hadn’t exactly let her go, anyway. She might still have a job, come tomorrow morning. It had been a bit unclear and Clara was always pretty good with wiggle room. The question was whether she could bring herself to even go back.

The worst part was that she knew Malcolm wasn’t lying when he told her she’d known all along what she was getting herself into. He’d never pretended to be anything but what he was – a clever, arrogant, workaholic bastard who lived and breathed party politics. She should never have expected anything else.

But how could she not _want_ better from the man she was pretty sure she was fucking falling for?

Even now, furious as she still was with how he’d treated her, his refusal to disagree without flying off the handle (hello kettle, I’m pot, she thought, glumly), she missed him. She wanted to hear him outside her door, ala Stanley Kowalski, shouting for her to come back to him.

It was mad and it was ridiculous and probably the stupidest thing she’d ever wished for. Yet there it was. She wanted Malcolm Tucker on his knees for her, lamenting his loss and telling her he would make it up to her. She wanted him to apologize and mean it, even if she wasn’t ready to say those words, herself.

It was a selfish way to love someone, though. Especially someone like Malcolm.

An unexpected lump rose in her throat as the audience on her telly applauded the end of a dance number she’d barely been watching.  It wasn’t fair. Danny had been generous to a fault, so giving of himself that Clara had, perhaps, gotten spoiled from it. Not that Danny wasn’t his own man. They’d had their disagreements, like any couple, but he had learned how to deflect her temper with some practice. He’d have done practically anything to make her happy; it was just who he was.

Malcolm wasn’t like that. He didn’t bend over backwards to impress her and he wasn’t one to compromise easily. She’d known all that from the start, too. Long before they were involved. In a boss, she hadn’t minded that quality. He was decisive, efficient, and really rather easy to please as long as you weren’t an idiot.

Then again, perhaps he’d only been like that with her because he fancied her. They’d tried to hide their attraction from one another, but it was obvious in retrospect. Sam had warned her that he could be very exacting and Clara had always taken great pride in working to his high standards. What if he had unconsciously lowered them to keep her around?

Clara shook her head. Now she was just being ridiculous.

No, the problem was not in their working relationship. It was in whatever this other thing was between them. Some days she could barely focus for the lingering smell of his cologne and the sight of those lean, busy hands, knowing how they felt on her flesh. A shiver ran through her, perking her nipples against the soft cotton of her pajama top. The chemistry between them was undeniable. Unforgettable. And nowhere near a good enough reason to feel like this at the end of the day.

She closed her eyes, willing away the sudden and deep longing to have Malcolm here with her, holding her close in his long arms. She felt it like a physical ache.

A knock on her door was a welcome distraction.

She wrapped her fluffy robe around herself and went to look out the peephole.

Oh.

There he stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot, breath puffing visibly into the chill evening air. She ran a hand over her hair to smooth it and swung the door open slowly.

“Malcolm. Wasn’t, uh, expecting you.”

He glanced briefly at her face before casting his gaze toward her doorframe. He twitched a slight shrug. “Yeah, just call me the Spanish fucking Inquisition. Can I… May I come in? Just for a moment.”

His stiff, almost overly polite tone filled her with a sense of dread and she wiped suddenly sweaty palms on her robe. “Yeah, ok.” She stepped aside.

He crossed the threshold just enough to close the door behind him, but made no move to take off his coat. An uncomfortable silence lingered briefly until he cleared his throat. “Look, there’s… there’s a job opening in the speech writing department. Fat Pat told me about it before the holidays and I sent them your CV and some writing samples. They want to bring you in for an interview next week.”

Clara nearly swallowed her own tongue. Of all the things she’d have expected to hear from Malcolm, that had not been anywhere even near the list. She took a breath to calm her nerves, then another. While she struggled for words, Malcolm reached a hand into his coat pocket and produced a sealed envelope.

He held it out to her, “your recommendation from me. You have to hand it in unopened but I can guarantee it’s top notch. The interview is really just a formality. The job’s yours if they know what’s fucking good for them.”

She took it, his chilly fingers brushing hers. Then she noticed his last two fingers were splinted and bound. “Jesus, what happened?”

“No, still just Malcolm and I, uh, shut them in a car door.”

Her other hand flew to her mouth. “Do you need some ice or – ”

“No,” he cut her off, withdrawing his hand quickly and stuffing it back into his pocket. “It’s fine. I’ve got pills.”

“Oh.” Clara nibbled her lower lip, looking down at the envelope in her hands.  “You know, I really thought… oh nevermind.”

“What?”

She made a soft sound of disbelief, returning her gaze to his face, though his eyes still only met hers briefly before flitting away again. “I thought... I mean, didn’t you just fire me, today? Why – not that I’m not grateful – but why are you helping me?”

At that, he looked taken aback. “Why not? You’re one of the best fucking PAs I’ve ever had. I’d meant to tell you about this job for a while but I wanted to…” His mouth twisted. “It was meant to be a surprise. For New Years, since they didn’t get back to me by Christmas.”  

Clara blinked at him, wondering if she’d actually fallen asleep on the sofa and this was just a wild dream. She fought the urge to pinch herself. Despite their row, Malcolm had gone out of his way to ensure she’d get the job she’d wanted from the start. It didn’t escape her notice that he’d also arranged it so that he wasn’t her boss anymore. That meant it wouldn’t matter if they went out together. In public. Like a couple. A couple of what, she still wasn’t quite sure. She was overcome by a strange tenderness. He was the most prickly, mercurial, difficult man she’d ever met, but he had his moments…

“Thank you,” she said, unabashedly sincere in her warmth and gratitude. “This really…. This means the world to me.” She wrapped a hand around his forearm and raised herself up to brush her lips to his cheek.

When she lowered herself down to flat feet, their faces stayed quite close. He studied her for a long moment, his mouth slack, face unreadable.  It felt as though he were about to draw a portrait and needed to memorize every eyelash. Clara felt herself grow warm under such scrutiny. At this distance, the urge to kiss him was nearly unbearable. She began to lean in.

Then he grimaced, shoulders curving down and hollowing his chest, making him seem even thinner than usual. “Yeah, well. For all my sins, let it not be said I’m a shoddy fucking boss, right?”

Rebuffed, Clara backed away, dropping her hand from his arm. “Right.”

With a nod he turned back toward her door.

Was that it? He’d come all this way to give her a letter and tell her about the new job? Nothing else? “Malcolm!” the name came out as a gasp and she hated that edge of desperation in her voice.

He paused, turning his head slightly. “I should go.”

She approached him carefully, afraid he might startle. “You don’t have to,” she offered.

He turned back to face the door and nodded his head. “Aye, I do.”

And with that, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's not fixed yet, but it will be! I promise!


	20. Mending Fences

He didn’t go to see her on her first day at the new job and he counted that as a fucking victory. They had only spoken twice since he’d stopped by with the news that she’d be welcome on the speech writing team, come the new year. Once, she’d texted him to say thank you and he’d told her not to fucking worry about it. The second time they spoke, she’d asked if her green dress was in his closet. It wasn’t. He had a sneaking suspicion she already knew that.

The third time she texted, he didn’t respond at all. What the fuck else was there to say?

Rather than even think about Clara Oswald, Malcolm turned his focus to his work. He had a record to set straight and he couldn’t do it if he allowed himself to even think about something else. The agency sent him a temp to sit at the front desk – a dimpled cheeked ginger man who looked barely out of sixth fucking form but knew his way around a computer alright. The little wanker made shite coffee but he didn’t so much as flinch when Malcolm bollocked him for it. He’d do for now.

In the following week, Malcolm spent more nights on his office sofa or passed out at his desk than he did in his own bed. It helped, staying that fucking busy. He was probably gonna regret it, soon enough. But there’d be time for that.

After days of tireless work, a truly remarkable masterpiece of manipulation emerged. And that was that.

The PM’s new pet policy was exposed for the money trap only an elite few had known it was.

Malcolm leaned back in his chair, that blue folder still open on his desk. He ought to find a way to hide the evidence, but he was almost proud. For the first time in years – perhaps fucking decades – Malcolm Tucker had put the needs of the people above those of the party. It was disturbingly satisfying, even knowing he might have thrown himself in front of the inevitable fucking trainwreck to follow.

Julius was one of the few in the know and he’d tried bringing in that steaming sack of fecal matter, Steve Fleming. But it was no good. The policy was fucking buried and no amount of fucking Frankensteining would bring it back. Especially not by that hack cunt, Fleming. That grubby, minging, bootlicker with a baboon’s arse for a face. It had been good fucking riddance when he’d flung Fleming out with the rest of the trash. And here was that walking, talking shaved testicle, Julius, dragging him right back to Number 10.

Un-fucking-believable.

Of course, Julius still had a stick up his arse over that legacy shite from two Christmases ago. He’d been looking for a way to undermine Malcolm ever since. This policy leak might just give him the fucking ammo he needed.

Malcolm’s mobile buzzed and he peered curiously at the name on the caller ID.

“Hey Sam. How’s the simple fucking life, eh?”

“Well, I haven’t slept in nearly two years and everything’s covered in piss. Never been happier. You?”

Malcolm smiled for the first time all week. “Ought to teach that husband of yours better aim.”

Sam chuckled. “We’re just potty-training now. I’m sure the boys can show him a thing or two, soon enough. How are you getting on these days?”

Malcolm’s mouth twisted, smile fading. “Top of the fucking world.”

“Hm. That’s nice to hear,” she said, her tone artfully neutral in a way that implied she already knew he was lying. He hadn’t taught her that trick, she’d learned it all on her own. “Clara called,” she added, after a moment.

His tongue felt heavy and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He sipped from the bottle of water on his desk. “Oh?”

“Told me about her promotion.” There was a shuffling noise, one of the twins babbling in the background. “That was well done of you.”

“She’d earned it,” he forced the words out of an increasingly constricted throat.

“I’ve no doubt. Always knew she was going places. Ugh, hold on a tick.” More muffled sounds, children laughing. He vaguely recognized the theme song of popular children’s show starting up and then fading slightly. “Sorry, the boys love this bloody show but if I have to hear ‘can we fix it?’ one more time, I’m like to go ‘round the bend… Anyway, you two definitely calling it quits, then?”

Malcolm choked on his second sip of water, pounding himself on the chest then grunting as it jarred his splinted fingers. Sam asked twice if he was alright before he found his voice again.

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just went down the wrong fucking pipe. Did she fucking tell you that?” he gasped, all in one ragged breath.

Sam sighed. “No. Wouldn’t talk about you at all, actually. Except to say she was ‘grateful for the opportunity’. Never heard anyone mention you that politely, so I knew something was off.”

Malcolm exhaled noisily. “Thanks for that.” He licked his lips. “Ah, is she… she’s happy with the job, though?” He pulled a face at how that must sound. God, he needed a fucking hobby or some shite. This was fucking ridiculous.

A pause. “Yeah, I think so. She was eager to get started. Thinks Pat is an idiot, but everyone thinks Pat’s an idiot, so that’s nothing new.”

That drew a half-hearted snicker from him. “How long did you know? Clara and… and me.”

“You’d be embarrassed if I told you.”

“Won’t be the worst thing I’ve fucking felt this week.” Malcolm leaned back in his chair, drumming the undamaged fingers of his free hand on the arm.

“Oh Malcolm…” Sam drew a long breath and released it. “I knew when I saw you together at the birthday party.”

He felt his eyes widen, a bark of humorless laughter escaping his lips. “We weren’t… Nothing happened until that summer.”

“Hmm,” that same blandly skeptical tone. “If you say so.” Another brief pause. “Look Malcolm, how long have we known each other? Over ten years by my estimate.”

“About that, yeah.”

“In over 10 years, I’ve never seen you like that.”

He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sam, don’t.”

“You lit up, Malcolm. And she did too.”

“Yeah, like two fucking fuses,” he growled, clutching the phone a little too tightly. “Sam, I’m old enough to be her fucking father and bad enough company on a fucking good day. You, of all people, should know.”

Sam sighed again. “Okay, fine. Nevermind me. You go on being a lonely miserable bugger. Because I’m sure Clara’s happier that way, too. I mean, not that she sounded it.”

He scrubbed his hand down his face, being more careful of the bandages this time, and groaned. “She’ll be happier for it in the long fucking run, yeah?”

“Don’t you think Clara can decide that for herself?”

Malcolm faltered at that, mouth falling slightly open. The phone beeped and he glanced at it and almost shat it with a sense of absurd relief. “I’ve got to go, Sam. Got a call from Tom on the other line. It was… uh, it was nice catching up.” Before she could reply, he’d switched the line.

***

The whispers going around the office sounded like idle gossip at first and Clara paid them no mind. Until she caught the name Malcolm Tucker at the center.

_Fired._

_Let go._

_Resigned._

_Kicked in the bloody caboose and about bloody time!_

From every corner, rumors and opinions about Malcolm’s abrupt departure from Number 10 began to pour in, bouncing off one another and growing in size.

“I heard he was having an affair with the PM’s wife,” one secretary confided with a sly grin.

Another rolled her eyes, “you’ve got it all wrong. It was Julius he had the affair with. Baldy kicked him out over a lover’s quarrel!”

Clara fixed them both with a steady glare worthy of Malcolm, himself, until they retreated from the kitchenette. It was bad enough she was stuck here when all she wanted to do was run to Malcolm’s side… see if he was alright… But she had no way of knowing if she’d even be welcome.

Julius must have been behind his untimely exit, that much she knew. There was an almost friendly sort of animosity between the two of them.  Then when that awful policy tanked, Julius had brought in Fleming, whom everyone knew Malcolm despised - and the feeling was mutual. Clara had worked on the welcome speech for Fleming, tempted to slip in one or two ambiguous insults. She was no fan of the man, either. Despite his friendly facade, she could smell a rat from miles away. At least Malcolm was upfront about his moral relativity.

Clara frowned down at her cuppa. She hadn’t heard from Malcolm in over a week. He’d stopped responding to texts and she wasn’t about to call and look that much more desperate. It was a bloody cowardly way to go about ending things between them. And all for what? The policy had gotten tanked, anyway. He hadn’t a leg to stand on because now the whole country knew what total shite it had been….

Oh for fuck’s sake. She was an idiot.

Malcolm had been behind it all along. Made it look as though he was still on Tom’s side, of course, but Julius must have seen or a least suspected. It wasn’t like Malcolm to leave enough loose ends to get caught. Clara took a large swallow of her tea, still just a little too hot but she didn’t care. Her pulse was racing. She had to get out of here. Tossing out the rest of the tea, she walked briskly to Pat’s office and made some silly excuse to leave early. Pat narrowed her eyes but agreed to let her take the time if she came in early the next day. With that concession, Clara grabbed her coat and bolted.

Within the hour, she found herself standing outside Malcolm’s door, catching her breath. Smoothing a hand over her hair with one hand, she rapped on the door with the other.

No answer.

She knocked again. A light in the upstairs bedroom went out. Clara pursed her lips and pulled out her mobile, thumb poised over his contact.

The door swung open.

“Clara.” His voice was low and rough, his hair bedraggled. He wore a fleece jumper over pajama bottoms with coffee stains on them.

Her mouth dropped open without a single thought as to what would come out of it. “God, you look awful…”

He grimaced slightly, mouth twisting off-center. “I see you’ve come to comfort me in my time of fucking need.”

Clara exhaled loudly, hands rising in a defensive posture. “I’m sorry. I did, actually. I had every intention of… Can I come in, though?”

Malcolm shrugged and turned away from the door, heading toward the kitchen without a backward glance.

Clara took that as a sign that she was at least not entirely unwelcome and crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. The place was still quite tidy though she noticed one end table was missing and a few framed pictures were sitting on the counter, the glass in the frames cracked apart. She swallowed hard.

“Coffee?” Malcolm called from the kitchen.

“Um, no thanks.” She settled primly on the sofa, twisting her hands in her lap.

When Malcolm emerged with a steaming mug, he lowered himself heavily into the armchair across from her. “Well?”

“They are saying all sorts of terrible things about why you were… why you resigned,” she glanced from her lap to his face, finding him avoiding her gaze as well. “I know none of it’s true. I had a good mind to give those nosy bints a bollocking of my own but I don’t think I’ve got your talent for them.”

He huffed a sarcastic little chuckle. “Clearly I taught you nothing useful in our time together. Fucking pity, that.” He sipped at his coffee.

“You taught me quite a lot, actually.” She finally caught his eye and held it. “Like how to recognize when government officials are covering their arses. Badly, I might add.”

“What else did you expect from that lot of buggering morons?” Their eyes stayed locked as he took another sip.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

He blinked, saying nothing.

Clara clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap, moving to the edge of her seat. Their knees brushed but neither pulled away. “Tell me. Please?”

Malcolm set his coffee to the side, leaning forward in his chair. “What was me, Clara?”

“You sunk the policy. I don’t know how you did it because not a single thing leads back to you.” She shook her head, a smile touching her mouth. “It was masterful. A work of art. And you’ve saved so many people’s livelihoods!”

Malcolm’s lip curled. “And for what? So I could be fucking publicly arse-fucked by a walking fucking ballsack and his pet ferret?” He exhaled heavily, sinking back against the chair.

Clara pressed her lips together. “Then why do it?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Why do you think?”

Clara frowned, temper flaring, despite her best intentions to keep this encounter a calm one. “You… you broke up with me. You’ve been ignoring my texts. Haven’t even been to see me in the new office and it’s not like it’s a long walk, you know.”

He gave another wry chuckle. “Nothing wrong with your fuckin’ ego, is there?” She glared at him, which only seemed to amuse him further. He inclined his head, sitting up further in the chair. “Alright. You may have influenced my decision. In the end.” He took a deep breath. “Might want to turn on a fucking recording device because I only say this every half century or so… You were right. It was the only choice I could, in good conscience,” he pulled a face as though the very word tasted foul, “make about that shitpile of a policy.”

Clara’s heart wanted to pound out of her chest. Before she could stop herself, she had grasped his cheeks in both hands and covered his mouth with hers. He stiffened for a second before responding, parting his lips to suckle one then the other of hers. Her fingers plunged into his tangle of silvery-edged curls. His hands came to her shoulders, gently pushing her away, two points of color high on his cheeks.

“Clara… nothing about me has changed. I’m still a miserable cunt who enjoys bollocking the stupidity out of others. Who’s addicted to the power of information and who will do fucking anything to get done what needs fucking doing.” He licked his lips, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What’s worse is…. I need that job like I need fucking oxygen to breathe. Even though I know it’s fucking poison. I'm in fucking Downing Street withdrawal. Do you see how fucking sick that is?” He made a broad gesture with both hands, his face pale, eyes a bright, almost liquid blue.

Clara trembled. He was hurting and she couldn’t make it stop, didn’t even know how. “Well, no use sitting ‘round here, is there? Come on, let’s go fix it. Let’s get you back, if that’s where you need to be… How can I help?”

He gave her a troubled look, shaking his head. “Oh no. You stay out of it. You’ve worked too fucking hard to get bogged down in this mess.” He rose suddenly. “Look, thanks for the visit, but I think you should…”

Clara sprung to her feet, grabbing his arm to keep him from turning away. “Bullocks! I’m here for a reason. I gave Pat some idiotic excuse so I could run over here in the middle of the bloody day and be with you. Because you need someone to be there for you. And that someone is me, whether you like it or not!”

His face crinkled. “Why? Why waste your fucking time on a lost fucking cause?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m in fucking love with you, you idiot.” She stepped back, releasing his arm, half in shock that she’d said the words aloud. She’d pondered them off and on but hearing them fall from her own lips, she knew, at last and with utter certainty, that they were true.

Malcolm’s face had gone slack, mouth hanging open and eyes round and wide. It was almost a ludicrous expression on his sharp features, but somehow Clara didn’t feel like laughing. There was a long moment where neither spoke.

Clara shifted from one foot to the other. “You could say something, you know. Even if it’s just ‘fuck off.’”

“I love you.” The words came out as a sharp exhale.

Clara couldn't breathe. She had to have misheard. “Do you really mean that?” She closed the small distance between them, taking fistfuls of his jumper with both hands. “Now is absolutely not the time to take the piss.”

The corners of his mouth quirked upward as he framed her face with both hands. “Clara Oswald. I'm so fucking in love with you, it's been driving me stark, raving mad.”

The sheer conviction of his confession crashed over her, warming her all over and making her heart thump within her chest. A lump in her throat, Clara rose on tiptoes. “Not a long drive though, eh?” she murmured, smiling.

In place of a response, Malcolm dipped his head to capture her lips.


End file.
